Lost in America
A short return to Philly leaves my heart longing for Rennes
Amid visits with family and friends in Philly, I spent two weeks luxuriating in the things I have missed while living in France.
I actually jumped up and down the first time I grinded food waste in the garbage disposal of our Airbnb. I took every opportunity to wash clothes just so I could toss them into the dryer. I put flavored creamer in my morning coffee, turned the AC on full blast, and bought humongous bottles of Advil and Tylenol at CVS. I never did find an adequate baguette, but I tasted a couple of perfect peaches, walked along Fairmount Park’s beautiful Forbidden Drive, drank beer that is far superior to what I’ve tasted in France, visited my favorite nail salon, and got to watch the Phillies and Democratic National Convention in real time.
What I enjoyed most, though, was what happened to my brain.
As soon as I stepped off the plane at Philadelphia International Airport, my brain went on vacation. I could feel it pull down the security shutters on those areas that help me speak another language, learn how to do new stuff and navigate French bureaucracy. Before I could even hail a taxi, my cerebral cortex had slipped on flip flops and ordered a banana daiquiri.
I didn’t realize how hyperalert my brain has been until I felt it unclench and switch to auto-pilot. I didn't need to look up any vocabulary words before visiting the pharmacy or practice difficult vowel sounds. There was no need to decipher the metric system, and I never needed to Google a sentence that begins with, “How do I” and ends with, “in France.”
Two whole weeks of knowing how to do everything I needed to do! Morning walks and afternoon jaunts without GPS. Not having to figure out how many kilos of mushrooms I need or what my shirt size is here. Immediately knowing what coin was in my hand just by the feel of it. Chicken broth already made and waiting in a handy shelf-stable box! What a relief.
All that and clothes that aren’t stiff from line-drying was more than worth the price of the plane tickets.
My brain was truly relaxed, but my heart was longing. We both yearned daily for our life in Rennes. We missed the aesthetics of a French city, the food choices and the superiority of the cheese. (Sorry, but I can no longer eat cheese in the U.S. It’s over between us.)
It was even more than that. After expending so much effort to create a new life someplace so far away, we felt lost and a bit sad without it. Even for just two weeks.
The source of the anxiety I wrote about when anticipating this trip had, indeed, revealed itself. As I suspected, my nervousness about visiting my hometown had to do with the reluctance to interrupt the habits and lifestyle changes I have acquired, little-by-little, agonizing step by agonizing step, as part of this monumental change in our life. I didn’t want to spend an entire day not speaking French. No amount of softly tumbled clothes or pre-made chicken stock could fill that hole.
The lifestyle adjustments I’ve acquired in France also made me hyperaware of the glaring differences in Philly – and also one very welcomed distinction.
I was stunned by the high price of food and too chilled by the powerful air conditioning, but captivated by the dizzying selection of Phillies T-shirts. I was soothed by the patois of the Philadelphia accent, but the familiar sound - and fury - of all the Ford F-150s barreling down Ridge Avenue put me on edge. The architecture felt uninspired, and I actually saw a selection of madeleines at Trader Joe’s that had weird fillings that aren’t supposed to be there.
I also realized during my visit that I had overestimated the French conviviality. I had been bonjour-ed into believing the strict French rules of politeness were a genuine expression of friendliness. While walking down the street in the neighborhood where I grew up, most of the strangers I passed offered a hello, sometimes even a, “Hi, how are ya?” There were small jokes and friendly comments, and many – many – chances to meet doggies. By comparison, French strangers don’t entertain much small talk, and dog introductions are less common and more reserved.
It feels very much like the French are super friendly, with all the pleasant hellos, thank yous and have-a-good day wishes I receive daily, but when stacked up against a genuine Philly greeting, they seem a bit distant and perfunctory.
Yes, I decided, Americans – and Philadelphians, in particular – are much friendlier, more open and warmer than the French. And then some lady gave Don the stink eye for wearing a mask in Old Navy.
Don last wrote about the things he looked forward to experiencing in Philly. Here’s his scorecard:
Corn on the cob: Yum! I’m still picking the kernels out of my teeth.
Familiar beer: Ahh…! Our first sixpack was filled with local classics, including Troegs Troegenator, Victory Golden Monkey, Yards George Washington Porter and more.
The Phillies: Go! Good luck had us in the right field stands for that big comeback against the hated Braves.
A Tesla Truck: Yup! We saw two of the ridiculous things.
An actual newspaper. Nope! I didn’t see any at the local Wawa, a sad commentary on either the state of journalism or my priorities.
Speaking Philadelphian: Yo!
After seven years here in France, America and American stuff, customs, accents, climate controls, food, alcohol and sports no longer feel familiar or relaxing to me. I’m insulted when people don’t bonjour or bis. I’m annoyed my drinks are 80% ice and folks don’t recycle or compost. American public toilets without full doors, mosquitoes, bad bread and tasteless fruits and vegetables irk me. Waiters who act obsequious to get a tip, then present you with a check along with your dessert so they can turn tables and make enough money to buy health insurance make my blood boil ( it doesn’t take much). But pick up trucks and football force me to hide in my American house and concentrate on seeing my grandsons and my dog. I long for the tranquility of my French life, bureaucracy and google translate included.
We’ve been in Pau, France for 16 months. I was back in small town California in May for 3 weeks visiting our kids. I took advantage of drinking root beer and Porter beers, eating the best ever guacamole and carne asada tacos, stocking up on some vitamins, and a few things I could live without but wanted to enjoy back at home in France. I love seeing our kids but was ready to head home.
My biggest takeaway? How easy it is driving in the US. While there, I drove my 12 year old Toyota Highlander that we passed to our daughter. When we were both back home in France, hubby and I were gearing up for our 10 hours of required driving lessons to prepare us for the French driving exam. We have both driven manuals our entire lives and for the first 14 months in France and had discussed with getting a manual car here, of course. But that easy driving experience in the US convinced us to get an automatic here. It was delivered a few days ago. Your comment “I didn’t know how hyperalert my brain has been until I felt it unclench and switch to auto-pilot” is my exact experience driving an automatic in France. I am still aware of and anticipating moves of other cars and lights changing and speeds changing. But oh my gosh, now I ‘just drive’. It’s not tiring - because I’m not having to stay hyperfocused to downshift/upshift to the changing speeds and roundabouts. We are really happy with our decision - even though we tested/passed for our manual licenses!