Call it an initiation into the mysteries of Amherst, a slow process of acquiring the wisdom that will serve us well through the four (or more) years it takes to get a B.A.
Unfortunately, this kind of cherished knowledge is of very little use in a strange land where the standard question isn't even "Amherst? Where's that?" but "Où est Massachusetts?"
The differences between Amherst and France are startling. For instance, French people do not eat at Valentine; they have a slew of patisseries, and some of them even cook for themselves. They do not use Instant Messenger to communicate with people sitting less than a hundred feet away-instead they seem to prefer trying to run them down in the small-wheeled things they optimistically call automobiles. When I mention the word "TAP" to my French companions, most of them blanch, probably thinking it's one of President Bush's new defensive initiatives.
That said, much of the time I have spent since my arrival last week reminds me weirdly of freshman orientation. Huh? Well, some of it was a given, since my program is being run by the American faculty of Sweet Briar College. Hence the reception at the Ramada Airport Inn with nametags, punch mixed from Kool-Aid and the requisite questions: rank, serial number, college and potential major, all soon forgotten again in the whirl of introductions. And the Sex Talk, delivered by a dry-humored doctor from England, revealed hitherto unknown obstacles to sex in a land almost as sun-starved as its British neighbors.
"Notice how white they are," he said, showing us a pamphlet that featured pictures of two French boys in bed (together). "Take their clothes off, put them up against a starched sheet, and they just disappear. You can sleep with them, but you have to find them first."
But where the similarities really became apparent was with things not on the official program. For example, there's that new kid on the block jitteriness, as you wonder how much your fresh, I-just-graduated-from-high-school face sticks out among the hordes of returning upperclassmen. (Answer: it usually does, a lot.) Similarly, just a day or so ago I was eyeing the unsuspecting people around me, wondering if I stood out noticeably among them as a foreigner, or if I could at least pass myself off as a very pale Italian. Then I tripped over the untied laces of my sneakers, and realized that, like a brand-new freshman, the odds were that in the conceivable future, I could never hope to be as cool as the seniors-people who tie their shoes. There's also the "adult" rush of sudden access to alcohol (it's actually legal here), though drunkenness is frowned upon, and the prices I've had to pay make me want to go dry.
And as at Amherst, I'm confronting the need to revise certain portions of my vocabulary. Of course, there's the whole foreign language thing, but there are also subtle modifications to words I knew already, or thought I did. I remember the ongoing debates freshman year about the meaning of "hook up." The potential significance of the term covers just about everything from a simple peck on the cheek to a full-on-orgy involving members of the football team, Concert Choir and the Art Club, making it a thoroughly confusing concept. It's a word as ambiguous as the French verb "baiser" has become, though most of us have learned (hopefully not after having used it as a command) that it now means way, WAY more than just "to kiss."
The parallels continue to multiply as I explore the small city of Tours the way I once explored Amherst. Each place has its own sites set aside for both reverence and debauchery. The relics of St. Martin housed in the basilica across from my host family's apartment remind me of Emily Dickinson's quiet grave in the Amherst town cemetery, which the faithful travel from all over the world to see. My replacement for the social dorms here is the place Plumereau, an outdoor square surrounded by bars that all sorts of interesting people flock to at night. A French guy bought me a drink there that looked and tasted like used Crest toothpaste but packed a powerful wallop, equal to the most dubious mixtures I've drunk out of garbage cans in Stone.
Arriving in a foreign country, in short, hasn't been that different from going to college: odd, disorienting, but ultimately fascinating. So, freshmen, I dedicate this column to you, in whose shoes, or shower sandals, I find myself again. Two years ago, I came to Amherst from California, lugging overpacked suitcases, worried parents, and a broken lava lamp, with no idea of what was going to happen to me. I've left behind the parents and the lava lamp this time, but I've made another leap of several thousand miles, crossing a sea instead of a continent, to spend this year abroad. And now that the excitement of discovering a new place has returned to me, I remember how it feels, how far I've come and how far I've still got to go.
Rebecca Johnson '03 is taking her junior year abroad in Tours, France.