Going to Be Okay 

I’m a naturally quiet and shy person. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember. I hate bringing COVID into everything, but being shut in for two years turned my mild social anxiety to full blown crippling social anxiety. So as I stepped off the plane in Marseille, my mind was filled with doubts. Not only was I an anxious mess, but I was also sleep deprived. I did not sleep for the whole eight hour flight or during the five hour layover in London or in the one hour flight to Marseille. I am surprised I was even semi-functioning. Part of me wanted to be hopeful, while the other was spitting venom and cursing the whole GO trip. I had never been out of the country before. I’d never been on a plane before either, but after tons of Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers when the plane took off, I survived. So, I thought, maybe I could survive France, too. Now, I know the question everyone is asking so I’ll get it over with and answer it up front: no, I’m not Catholic. 

Half an hour after walking off the plane, I was in Aix-en-Provence, where I would be living for the next month. While in the bus, I was dazzled by the sweeping hills and the daunting mountains. I was awestruck by the towns and homes perched on the side of those mountains and wondered how they even got there. It made me forget, for a moment, that I was far from home. 

When the bus stopped, my friend Rebekah and I met the woman we were staying with for the next four weeks. She was an older woman, probably in her seventies. She had short brown hair and was wearing brown capris and a white shirt. Her name was Patricia. Which, funnily enough, is my mom’s name. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled and led the two of us to her car, where I had the absolute fortune of riding shotgun. Let's just say the ride to her home was silent. I had to fight the urge to bite my nails off. 

Her apartment was three bedrooms with one bathroom that had a death trap instead of a shower. Patricia showed us the two rooms, one bigger with a desk and one smaller with a lap desk (provided by Patricia). Rebekah and I didn’t care which room we got, so we chose randomly with two papers, the words “bigger” and “smaller” written on them. I wouldn’t admit it, but I really did want that bigger room. Sadly, hoping for it was my downfall. I ended up in the smaller room.  

As we were unpacking Patricia called us into the kitchen to have a talk. We talked about house rules and dietary preferences. Dinner was fast approaching. I told her I was a picky eater, and she basically said to suck it up. Okay, she actually said that I have to try new things, but in my anxious and sleep-deprived mind it was basically like she told me she hated me. After that talk I cried. I cried so hard that Rebekah told me the next day that she could hear me from outside the room. 

After that first night, the trip finally began. I felt like I stuck out everywhere I went. There was no way for me, as a fat American, to ever try to seem like a French person. And even though I was trying hard to adhere to French customs, I just knew they all saw me as a tourist. Call it a gut instinct. Maybe anxiety.  

For our trip, we went to the Musée Granet, an art museum in Aix, many times for a research project based on one artist or art piece. I researched Pablo Picasso, a name I wish to never hear again. His pieces weren’t even in the Musée Granet, but in a separate part of the museum called Granet XXe. It was a bit awkward going around and taking close-up and far-away pictures, taking notes on what the plaques said about the art. Most of the people around me who weren’t part of my trip were walking around in their nice, business casual clothes perfectly suitable for France, while I was wearing a graphic t-shirt and jean shorts. I’m used to feeling people are watching me, but in France, and especially in that museum, that feeling was doubled. Especially because there's a stereotype that French people hate Americans. I wanted nothing more than to say to them: “I’m not one of the loud and self absorbed American tourists. I’m here to actually learn about your customs, please, I’m here for school, have you heard of the GO program at Susquehanna University? I would get taken out back and shot in the head if I refused to engage with your culture. Love me, choose me.” 

As time went on and I got used to the city of Aix, things got a little easier. Even though I knew people viewed me as a tourist, I got better at ignoring it. One thing I couldn’t ignore, though, was interacting with French people and people outside my group. Every time I walked into a store I would say “Bonjour” and if they tried to say anything more I would look at Rebekah and she would say “Sorry?” and then they would promptly start talking in English. For the three years Rebekah and I have been friends, she bragged that she tested out of the foreign language requirement with French, but when it was actually time to speak French, she failed every time. Love her though. I took French my freshman year of high school, so I was also no help. I couldn’t pronounce anything. To order food I would just awkwardly point at the menu. If it works, it works. 

At some point in the second or third week, I realized that I would never see any of these people again, and what they thought of me didn’t matter. You’re probably wondering why it took me so long to realize this obvious fact, but this was groundbreaking to me, and it completely changed the way I interacted with the people around me. 

One instance stands out to me while interacting with French retail workers. It was during the last week, the last free day before we left. In Aix, they had a lot of American chains. Some of which were Dominos, Sephora, and H&M. The whole time while we were in Aix, I wanted to go to Pandora to get a charm to commemorate my time abroad. It took me four weeks to muster up the courage to go in there, because the two times I tried at the beginning, the door was locked, and I was unable to get in. That, or I pushed on a pull door. 

When I finally entered Pandora, a woman with long brown hair leaned on the showcase in the middle of the long-but-not-wide store. On each wall, display cases showed off different sets of jewelry. I found the bracelet charms in the middle, where the woman was leaning. I made the mistake of making eye contact with her, and she asked me something in French. I did what I usually did and looked at Rebekah hoping she would suddenly become super fluent in French. I was horrified when that didn’t happen. Rebekah responded with her normal “Sorry?” and that’s when we found out that the woman didn’t speak any English. I hadn't met any worker who didn’t speak English, and I wasn’t really sure how to navigate it. She kind of motioned at my phone and I opened up my Google Translate app. After typing in the Google Translate, passing my phone back and forth, hoping I didn’t get any weird texts from my friends at home, and pointing silently at the counter, I ended up getting my charm. It’s shaped like France and says “C’est La Vie” on it. It made me feel like a tourist, but I think it’s cute. I’m not so afraid of looking like a tourist anymore. I was really proud of myself for getting through that interaction. I did freak out at first, but I was able to navigate it and ended up getting what I wanted. 

During the last week, our group was informed of a wine tasting that would be held by the university. With grand delight, we all signed up immediately. When the day came around, Rebekah and I were going to sit with our student group but it ended up not working out and we sat with some other American students that we’d never met before. Two girls and a guy. I recognized the guy from our trip to Monaco Rebekah and I went on two days prior and the two girls from a trip to La Ciotat. I didn’t talk much at first, since the normal jaw-shutting anxiety crept up, but soon enough (and after a few sips) the five of us were smiling and joking with each other. After every sip we would tell each other what we thought of the wine, and at the end we all downed the rest of the glasses together. It felt almost natural to me. We ended up getting the girls’ Intagrams and we saw one of them at a local café and had a short conversation. It was nice having people I could recognize in public while being in a different country. This idea of “I will never see these people again” didn’t just apply to French people, it also could apply to other Americans I interacted with. 

After coming back to America, and starting the fall semester, I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time. The want, no, the need to talk to people. If I can interact with French people with a language barrier, then I can interact with people who also speak English. 

I spent my first three years of college in the shadows because the thought of being in the sun made me spiral. I watched silently as my peers walked past me. In France, I felt braver than I ever have. France didn’t just force me to talk to people, it showed me that even if I am afraid, I can still talk and still make relationships. And, in the words of my favorite musician, Cody Fry, “maybe that’s what it means to be brave, to feel all the fear and show up anyway.” 

This sounds like a story of me shedding my social anxiety overnight, and that’s just not true. In France I struggled with being social, and even now in Pennsylvania I am still struggling with social anxiety. Some days are better and some days are worse. What’s different now is that I have evidence that I can go out and talk to people.  

I have talked more to my peers than I ever have before, and even made some friends. In my dreaded biology lab, we have groups we’ve been working in. Usually in group work, I let other people lead while I fade into the background, but this semester I am an active participant. Sometimes we even get lunch together after class. Participating during that class is a whole other beast, though. One I’m sure I could tame if I tried, but I don’t think I’m quite ready. Hey, progress is progress. Sometimes you just need to break through a mental barrier, and France helped me do that.