Final few days

Professor told us that other French people think of Parisians in this way: when they go to kill themselves by shooting themselves in the head, they have to reach up here — she indicated a space high above her head — because they are so full of themselves and have such big egos.

We had a discussion about stereotypes. The Russian said that the world thinks they drink too much, when in fact they have very strict laws about drinking, and also that everyone outside of Moscow hates Moscow. The Japanese guy said that the world thinks Japan works too hard, but that that’s a true thing. The Chinese girls claimed to not know any stereotypes about China. The Syrian girl said that everyone thinks Syrians party too hard and have too much money. When it was my turn, I explained that other Americans think my community are inbred, uneducated cannibals who don’t wear shoes or have teeth. The whole room stopped and looked at me. “Oh, my poor dear,” said the professor.

The French are more actively kind than Americans. They have different manners, yes, and are extremely blunt, but they are kind. All sidewalks and public spaces have special grooves built in, so that blind people with canes can trace where they are going. Cars always let pedestrians go, even if the light is green. Strangers are helpful and attentive. The longer I am here the more I see smiling and joviality, or maybe I can just recognize it now. They are always throwing parties for each other, picnics and events and potlucks, and invite anybody who turns up. They care deeply about the environment. They talk to strangers about their grandparents or the weather. Politics is not taboo, and neither is religion. Children are safe to travel alone. Buses wait for you.

A student at my school was killed some weeks ago, in Marseille. Lots of our students commute to the school from Marseille, and she was one of them. Victim of a botched mugging.

And we had a massive vigil. Every class was put on pause and all students were expected to gather at the center of campus. All of my professors brought it up at the beginning and end of class, explaining resources for grief counseling and imploring us to be safe. This is not a small college; it’s maybe the size of ETSU. About once a semester, I get a general update email from UT that includes a small note about another student passing, and that’s it. And I get it, UT is massive, something like 20,000 students, but the difference between the two reactions to a student’s death was startling.

~

I’m nine days out from leaving at time of writing. I’m ready to come home. Not to be soppy, but I really really want to hug all my friends and pick up my niece and take a nap with my cat. I can’t wait to be in the middle of nowhere again, out in nature where there are more trees than people. But I also know that I am so very not ready to leave. Hm.

None of the little tidbits have anything to do with each other, they also kinda do. Like any twenty-year-old, I’ve got some conflicted feelings.

Cordialement,

Allison

P.S.: This won’t be published within an accurate timeline. I make a point to never get things done on time.