No. 12, Anticipation

It is hard to believe that in less than three months I will be leaving for my year-long stay in Paris and embarking on a journey--both physical and mental--that is sure to change me as a person.  Aside from time itself, all that stands in my way is: the purchase of an airline ticket, the finalization of the visa process, and the completion of my two online biology courses.

Anticipating my year abroad, I cannot help but think back on my first experience leaving home.  As you all know by now, this great step was not taken until the summer before my senior year of high school-- a bit late in comparison to my other friends who had braved sleep-away camp summer after summer.  Overwhelmed with excitement and exhilaration, I failed to acknowledge my fear and anxiety, assuring myself that I was sufficiently both mature and prepared.

A few days before departing, my mother and I met my French teacher--more accurately, mentor and inspiration-- for a café to discuss my upcoming experience and share last minute advice.  Mr. Azzi warned me about my French-size room and the inevitable struggle of speaking French "under pressure"-- prompting the fear of being dependent on a language other than my mother tongue.  "You should expect, when you arrive, that you will be upset, probably cry, and be very homesick.  Just know that this is just the jet-lag and that upon waking up the next morning, you will regret feeling the way you did the day before-- I promise."  I shrugged off Mr. Azzi's advice saying, "I am too excited for that to happen!"  But of course, Mr. Azzi knew all too well that I was only fooling myself.

 Upon arriving in Nice, I was certainly tired, yet I was immediately energized by the breathtaking panoramas of the city spotlighted by the windows of the autobus.  We arrived at our lycée, Lycée Masséna, and as I stood in the check-in line, I began to feel the first signs over overwhelming fatigue, which I boldly fought through the three-story climb to my room whilst carrying two overfilled duffle bags.  I found my room and nudged open the door only to find that my room was more than twice as bare and tiny as I had imagined.  I proceeded to break down.  I phoned my mother bawling, begging to come home, and insisting that I was assigned to the worst living situation possible.  Naturally, my mother was beside herself; not knowing what to do or how to help, she consoled me as best she could reminding me of how long I had been looking forward to this experience and pleading that I give it a chance.  I hung up the phone and rushed to dinner so that I could return to my prison cell as soon as possible.  I spoke to a few people who seemed to be far less upset than I was; yet I sulked back to my room still longing to return home to my comfort zone.

I opened my window to find a quaint view of Nice-- my school, some picturesque houses, and a lush landscape of deep greens and blues.  It was quite stunning, and I began to feel a bit of comfort in this foreign setting.  A few minutes later, my portable rang, flashing a number I did not recognize.  I picked up the phone with a shy "allo?" and, to my surprise, I heard a familiar voice on the other end: "Lisa? This is Mr. Azzi. You didn't believe me, did you?"  My fear and sadness turned to anger, and I began to shout at and complain to Mr. Azzi, cursing him for "forcing" me into such an experience-- essentially telling him that I hated him and blaming my emotions solely on him.  "Your mom called me freaking out, saying that you wanted to come home and hated everything... so I told her I'd take care of it."  I told him that he was not mistaken.  Yet after a brief conversation and some words of encouragement, Mr. Azzi had said enough to calm me down and to make me agree to going to sleep and starting anew tomorrow.

Just as Mr. Azzi had promised, I woke up the next morning refreshed, reinvigorated, and ready to embark on my six-week adventure along the Côte d'Azur.  I could vaguely recall the tears and howls I released the night before, and I was thoroughly ashamed of myself.  How could I so prematurely and cruelly reject the beauty and splendor of Nice?  Such blasphemy compelled me to immerse myself in French language and culture even more than I had originally planned.  I breathed in the scent of the Mediterranean, imbibed a delectable diabolo fraise, sampled the life-changing ice cream of Fenocchio, and confidently conversed in French with anyone who was willing to embrace my frequent mistakes.  I met some amazing people, greatly improved my oral and written French, and developed as an individual more than I could have ever imagined.  One could say that I was "sold" after this experience; I knew I would go on to major in French and, one day, be a French professor.  I am proud to say that I am still on this journey and am still as passionately determined to follow through with this aspiration.

This time around, I anticipate the fear I will experience upon arriving in Paris and the desire I will feel to return home every now and then.  I hope that going into this experience with this understanding and acceptance will ease the transition into this new chapter of my life.  Ever since I returned home from Nice in August 2007 and, more recently, from Paris in August 2009, I have been anxiously awaiting this year abroad.  I have never been so excited about or scared of anything-- feelings I have come to understand and consider as healthy and essential to the human experience (or at least to my own).  If a year in Paris opens my eyes and emotionally shapes me even half as much as Nice did in only six weeks, I think I can safely say that I expect to truly find myself and the person I hope to be in the future-- a revelation to which I wholeheartedly look forward.