Time is effective at extracting the good memories from the bad, especially when a dream is entangled with a nightmare. In this case, it was my inaugural trip to France — a childhood fantasy made true, having voluntarily studied the language since I was eight years old. The same year that my middle school began a French program, it was announced that a student exchange was being organized with an American school outside Paris, whose director was from my hometown.
Flash-forward to May, when a large handful of rowdy seventh- and eighth-graders flew across the Atlantic (under the supervision of two faculty chaperones) where they were paired with families who had once lived in the States. Culture shock was inevitable, and for me, it was initially the food. My preteen diet primary consisted of carbs, sugar, and processed meats. When we met our host families at a school picnic, I was presented with the worst pizza I have ever eaten: cold, bland and topped with clammy vegetables. However, as the cuisine failed to improve, the Bienvenu family welcomed me into their world, specifically the mother, a doctor, who was warm and hospitable. My host-brother, Claude, was eighteen months younger than me, the middle child of three boys, and, while nerdy like myself, I quickly realized he was an incompatible match — quiet and socially awkward versus my loud extroversion; I made an easier connection with his confident older brother (13), and even his mischievous youngest (8). My least interaction was with Monsieur Bienvenu, an automotive engineer who rarely spoke and was usually away at work (as a fatherless child, I presumed all dads to be absentee in one way or another).
It was easier to bemoan the differences than praise the good things. Being defiant, mean-spirited middle schoolers, we mocked their language, names, fashion, alleged love for Jerry Lewis, inhumane lack of air conditioning and iced drinks, streets littered with dog droppings, the prevalent stenches of urine and body odor, and the bizarre and often inedible cuisine. Nearly every building was old, pollution-stained and defaced by graffiti. The school had squat toilets and no toilet paper. Our hosts spoke our language perfectly while we could barely speak theirs. As one friend put it, “everything is very small and very fast.” Yet there were the sweet and buttery pastries, the comforting popularity of American fast food, and the tantalizing glimpses of female nudity.
My peers had varying host family experiences, ranging from adequate to unbelievably perfect. I was widely regarded as the recipient of a bad pairing, so much that even our maternal chaperones took pity. Claude was just an awkward middle schooler (we all were at that age, myself especially with my big glasses and groan-worthy sense of humor) yet there was a social incompatibility that overshadowed our partnership, something significant at the time but difficult to justify after all these years. Meanwhile, his mother made determined efforts to show me Paris and France at large: a day trip to the Louvre and its newly-opened glass pyramids, a sunset ascent of the Eiffel Tower, a bike ride through the sprawling gardens of Versailles, and a weekend road trip to the glorious chateaux of the Loire Valley, which included a tour of Leonardo da Vinci’s fascinating retirement home.
And then there was the cat, Kiki. A very pregnant cat. I always wanted one as a pet and now I was living amongst one. Near the end of my two week stay, I witnessed the miracle of birth — an emergent litter of slimy little kittens, mewing adorably. It might have been the most exciting experience of my short life, when, a day later, the parents were dismayed that they could find no one to adopt the babies. So they stuffed them in an airtight jar, poured in a little ether, and reassured me the kittens would fall asleep before they suffocated. The tear-stricken brothers were mortified, as was the American guest who was leaving in two days. TWO DAYS! Mme Bienvenu tried to console me as Kiki anxiously wandered the backyard, calling out for her missing babies, but there is no plausible explanation for murdering kittens in front of children.
Naturally, we never kept in touch. Claude declined coming my way in the fall, so my family hosted a new student. We became friends and visited each other often. The trauma of my first trip to France didn't deter me from making many visits in the years since. Thirty years later, the exchange remains remarkable in my mind, less distressing than anything else from my middle school years. I had a great time. I love France. I love french food. I’m fluent in the language. I even liked my host family. Yet for all the hospitality that I received, the one thing that I cannot understand — and cannot forgive — is why the parents decided not to wait two more days.
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