I started taking French lessons when I was 13, and I took them through middle school, high school, and then in college. I was only 2 classes away from having a French minor, but I already had a minor and was pregnant and needed to graduate, so I didn’t end up adding a French minor.
The Summer before I met my husband, I did an internship in Marseille, France—ON THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA. It was as magical as it sounds—I ran along the beach 6 days a week. In my internship, I worked with a French organization, and it was my responsibility to check in weekly with a group of elderly people (I can’t remember how many it was…maybe 20 a week?). I had a partner, and we traveled throughout Marseille by bus and by metro to each person’s house. We spent a few hours visiting with each person—getting to know them and keeping them company. None of them spoke English and my partner was from Poland, so I spoke French only all throughout the day. It was one of my favorite experiences ever. I highly recommend living in a different country and trying to learn all you can from the people there.
I was able to fly to Rome for a weekend while I was living in Marseille, and I went on my own. On the 45 minute flight, I sat by a man in his 40’s. We spoke in English, but he also knew French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese—supposedly. He said he was an Italian physicist—supposedly, and I thought he was very handsome. Half way through the flight, he started holding my hand. And I let him. I think out of shock, but also because I thought it was funny. Why was a randomly handsome 40-something year old holding hands with me on an airplane? I couldn't figure it out. lol.
As the plane descended, we exchanged phone numbers, and he said he wanted to come see me in Marseille because he often traveled there. In my head, all I kept thinking is…this will make a great story one day. Me—a 20 year old—with a 40 year old Italian man. After he left the plane and I refocused on navigating Rome by myself, I realized that my story had the potential to turn into “Taken”. Remember that movie? It came out a year before I went to France, but somehow (probably because I was only 20), I didn’t consider that giving my number to an older Italian stranger was a bad idea. Yikes. He did call me the following week. And the week after that. By then, I was smart enough to ghost him.
Because my internship wasn’t paid, I was living off of money I’d saved up from the previous year when I worked at the University’s museum restaurant. And by the end of my summer, my finances were dwindling. But I wanted to make sure I had made the most out of my experience, that I’d had the true Provencial experience. The elderly people I became friends with told me that I needed to try Marseille’s signature dish—Bouillabaisse. Have you heard of Bouillabaisse? It is a Provincial dish—basically a fish broth accompanied by a pile of fish and clams that you put inside the broth. I’d rarely eaten fish (and I didn’t like it), but I was insistent that I needed to try this traditional dish. A couple of weeks before I left Marseille, I found a restaurant on the port, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Their sign said that they served Bouillabaisse for only 25 Euro. That was more than I wanted to pay, but I was willing to pay extra for a true Marseillaise experience.
The staff brought me the soup, followed by a large platter of dead fish. Eyeballs. Scales. The whole dead fish—probably caught right outside on the port. What was I supposed to do with all these dead fish? I grew up fishing with my dad, and he had taught me how to gut a fish with a knife….but that didn’t seem like the appropriate action. I asked the staff to teach me how to prepare the soup, and they instructed me to just throw the fish in the broth and eat it like that. I tried. I really did. I ate three bites. And then I called it a day. Definitely a waste, but you can’t win them all. The staff brought me the check, AND my bill was for 125 Euros. Apparently…the fish broth was 25E but the fish components were an additional 100. Did I get scammed? Maybe. Or maybe I was just dumb. In a panic, I handed over my debit card, and they emptied out my remaining bank account. I had $7 left to last me a few weeks.
I am embarrassed to tell the truth of what happened next because it reeks of privilege. But, I called my dad. And he wired me a couple hundred bucks to last me through the rest of the trip. Ohh the privilege. But I’m so grateful. I’ve since become a member of the dead dad’s club…and this story warms my heart, knowing how much he supported me while he was alive.
But before the money from my dad came through, I spent my few dollars on a bag of grapes at the grocery store, carefully taking off the stems so that I wouldn’t have to pay for the extra weight of them. But, the grapes weighed the same before and after I took them off their stems…and I basically just annoyed all of France in the process. I’m so sorry France. Please forgive me for my desperate American ways. Mon oeil.
I was young; I was dumb, and I hope my children are better than I was (mostly for their own safety). But also, I have a lot of compassion for younger me. I was 20. My brain was still developing, and I was doing the best I could.
It’s easy to look back at the old versions of ourselves and feel regret. Now we know better. We could have avoided pain, and hurting others and stupid mistakes. But in my 30’s, I’ve learned to have more self-compassion. We are supposed to be flawed, and hopefully we find ways to improve ourselves, but we are born for change and growth. And loss. That is life. I wish I could explain exactly what has helped me develop more self-compassion because then we could write out the recipe and mix it up and pass it out to all of our loved ones. I don’t think I’ve figured out what has helped me grow more compassionate to myself yet. But I have worked hard at accepting that we are not made to be perfect…we are all flawed, and we have that in common. We can find common ground in our flawed humanity.
We can try to give ourselves more compassion for who we were and who we are. And hopefully that will guide our children to do the same.
My latest canvas art is inspired by my experiences in France—in the lavender fields, on the beaches of Normandy, and my favorite macarons. Check them out here.
004: Young and Dumb in France