February | 2012 | The Perpetual Passenger

We’ve Moved!

February 19, 2012 · by Nikki

I just wanted to inform the subscribers of this blog that the site has officially become PerpetualPassenger.com!! This is all part of a series of changes I’ll be making to the site to help enhance the content and overall aesthetics.

If you’re reading this post in the usual way you hear from me, all is well! If not, please come back to PerpetualPassenger.com and re-subscribe.

AND – Keep an eye out for a lot more visual changes as I update the logo, the layout, and the overall look of the site.

Cheers, and thanks for reading! 🙂

Confessions of a Cross-Cultural Klutz

February 17, 2012 · by Nikki

I’ve heard about people relocating to other countries and completely reinventing themselves. Suddenly creativity is unleashed, intelligence overflows into the minds of previously simple citizens, and entirely new personas emerge. That’s what happens, right?

Not for me. Ten years after being voted “Most Accident Prone” in high school, I’m still breaking bones and accumulating injuries at an alarming rate.

I had dreams of becoming more gracieuse* during my stay in Paris, and in the city’s defense all the essential pieces of the puzzle are here: a charming locale, winters devoid of ice and snow, and a slower-paced culture. However, the pieces to a puzzle looking something like disaster are also present: cobblestone sidewalks, bicycles for rent every few blocks, and the strong urge to wear heels while in the fashion capital of the world (higher alcohol content in the beer doesn’t help, either). Alas, since moving to France, I have broken/injured a finger and a toe, fallen halfway down a flight of stairs and acquired several assorted inglorious battle wounds from my long-fought war with numerous enemies, known to Interpol as the terrorist organization Les Meubles.**

Yep. It was pretty much like that.

Image credit: explodingdog.com

But perhaps I’m looking at this all wrong… For someone who literally thinks to myself “Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall” every time I descend stairs in heels (which is multiple times a day), and who sees every “Attention!”*** sign as a serious threat to my physical health, I have been relatively unscathed as I sprint to the metro after reaching the bottom of said stairs or ride a rented bicycle across one of the most congested cities in Europe. Really, Paris is like a beautiful-yet-poisonous urban jungle filled with deadly ninjas and I’m just a girl trying to look cute while conquering this metropolitan maze and kicking their little ninja asses.

She looked pretty good doing it in Kill Bill...

Image credit Uma Thurman: FRANCO ORIGLIA/GETTY IMAGES

I am optimistic, though, and I like to think that maybe it’s not too late for me. Heck, 28 years of being a klutz doesn’t have to be an indicator of what’s to come, right?! My birthday is around the corner, and maybe the start of my 29th year is also the beginning of a new, more graceful future (cough, cough)! But, to be on the safe side, I won’t hold my breath. With my luck I’d pass out and break something on the way down…

*gracious/graceful

**furniture

*** Caution!

The International Language of Love

February 14, 2012 · by Nikki

Now that I’ve been inducted into the American Women Dating French Men Club (It’s true–this is a common phenomenon. The late Polly Platt even wrote a book about it, called Love à la Française, written specifically about the matchup between American women and French men), I am constantly asked about whether or not there are any differences in having a relationship with someone from another culture. The short answer: Heck yes!

The first, and most obvious difference is one I described in an earlier post: There was no pre-relationship dating period (or hoops to jump through, or games, or mind tricks, or silly moments where one begins to doubt the credibility of the feelings they’re forming, etc.).

But there are definitely other differences–some more subtle, while others tend to be obvious. As you might expect, most of the differences are related to methods of communication. While many American men tend to circumnavigate what they really want to say in an attempt to sidestep ANY negativity or tension (read: fights), French men tend to get right to the truth. This has its pros and cons:

Me: What do you think about this dress?

American: Yeah, sure, it’s nice. But what about that other one that you have? That one you just got last week?

French: No. Your skin is too pale to wear that color.

Me: Hey, do you want to go out with me and my friends this weekend?

American: Yeah! Sounds great (thinking: UGH)!

French: Not really, but I’ll come with you anyway.

In addition to differences in communication style, I’ve also noticed that certain activities appeal to one culture a lot less than to the other. For example:

Me: I need to go shopping. I want some cute boots!

American: Ugh. Okay.

French: Okay! I know some good places we can go.

Me: Wow – these flowers are gorgeous!

American: Ummm… (thinking: Oh I get it. She’s trying to hint to me that I should buy her flowers.)

French: Yeah, they’re beautiful. Let’s get some!

What these examples do not take into account is the specific issue of language. It’s easy enough for two Americans to have misunderstandings when things don’t come out right, tone is mis-perceived, or words other than those that most accurately describe one’s thoughts and feelings are used. Imagine how tricky it can be to decipher all of this with someone who grew up with a different set of words all together?!

At the end of the day, I find that the differences and challenges I face while trying to adjust to a new set of relationship rules do NOT outweigh the happiness I’ve found. What amazes me most is that despite these differences between us, being happy with someone has never before been this easy. And the craziest part? Realizing that I traveled half-way across the world for a job after a chance meeting with the man who’s now my boss and discovered way more than just a new job and a new city. Serendipity at it’s finest, I think. 🙂

Fear Factor, French Style

February 1, 2012 · by Nikki

You know that show where people do absolutely terrifying things in the hopes of winning money? Well if I was a contestant, the method of torturing me wouldn’t involve sticking my hand in a nest of angry bees, eating a tarantula or walking a tight-rope from one very high point to another (though I’ll happily say “no thanks!” if offered the chance to willingly do any of those things). All the producers of the show would have to do is plop me down in the middle of a crowded area filled with French people that I know and say, “…aaaaand: SPEAK FRENCH!”

My version of Fear Factor

It’s true. I suffer daily from what I not-so-lovingly call Glossofrancofamiliophobia–similar in root to “glossophobia,” which is a fear of public speaking, but with a specific reference to speaking French, and speaking it to people I know.

It’s almost entertaining, really. I can run to the boulangerie and order some bread or a tasty pastry, grab some lunch to go from some local dining establishment, or even catch a ride home in a cab and everything turns out fine. But take me out to dinner with a group of friends–or worse, my French boyfriend–and that’s when the trouble starts. My pulse quickens, my face explores the warmer shades of the rainbow, my brow starts to sweat, and suddenly it’s as if I’ve never studied a word of French in my life.

I freeze.

I get stuck.

I shut the hell up (and trust me, you know there’s a problem when my mouth stops moving).

Sadly, there are no commercials with animated figures who go from sad to happy in a matter of seconds thanks to a miracle pill for this condition. There are no therapists specialized in this field, nor are there rehabilitation centers that can get me on my feet. No, my friends, this phobia is one that has to be tackled alone. And hard.

No doubt the root of this issue lies in confidence, and I make small steps every day to boost mine. Frog Prince helps a lot. He doesn’t laugh at me or make me feel bad when I try and say the basic sentences I have the nerve to muster. But I just can’t shake the idea that the people I’ve come to like and respect will stop reciprocating those feelings once they hear my sorry excuse for French. Unrealistic? Probably. Terrifying? Absolutely.

So, fellow expats, francophones, and bi-linguists: please do feel free to share how you may have gotten over any of your personal barriers to speaking another language. In the meantime, I’ll be on the lookout for a life raft to save me from succumbing to the 20,000 leagues of lexicon I seem to be sinking in (or getting eaten by un requin français).