Down the rabbit hole...

It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before... to test your limits... to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.― Anaïs Nin, French (of course) poet.

One of my best friends read the above quote to me earlier this year. No doubt she did so in response to my repeated question of ‘Who the hell does this?’, after quitting my job, selling my house, billeting out my furniture, and storing the remaining tangibles of my life (just Tupperware really) in a friend's garage... all in pursuit of my quest to live and learn a foreign language on the other side of the world. This decision, while frightening, was an easy one to make. Because, as Anaïs Nin so profoundly declared, any apprehension I had about embarking on this solo journey 15,000 kilometres away from my loved ones simply could not outweigh my fear of not going.

Besides, playing it safe has never really been my thing. Give me the choice and I'll follow the White Rabbit over the Yellow Brick Road any day. Simply because the road less travelled holds more surprises. And I do like the unexpected. I know that those yellow bricks will lead me to Oz, but who knows what kind of madness I'll find down the rabbit hole.

The craziness of this life-changing decision was never more apparent than on my first day of language school in France. I arrived at 8.30am to sit a placement test to verify my level and was slotted into a class on the third floor. Thirty minutes late, I entered the classroom, muttered a 'Bonjour' to the professor, apologised for my tardiness, and snuck into the only empty seat in the room. But, Madame Héléne wasn't letting me off that easily...

S'il vous plaît, introduce yourself to the class and explain where you are from and why you are in Paris.

Merde. Why must all teachers indulge in this mortifying form of class bonding? I hated this exercise at the start of university courses back home, but at least then a response was permitted in English. I quickly managed to present myself to my professor's satisfaction, and we moved on. It was during the proceeding painstaking 30 minutes that I was struck by two sobering (no Dad, I wasn't drunk) realisations:

1. I could only understand about 25 per cent of what Madame Héléne was saying (quite problematic when she's asking you a question and all you can understand is your name); and
2. No-one was going to help me understand by translating words into my mother tongue, because every one of my classmates hailed from non-English speaking countries.

My school in Paris.

It was at this point that I started berating myself with thoughts of, 'Didn't really think this one through, did you Bek?' and 'You're in France, you idiot, what did you expect?' Now, I am aware that I am indeed in France and the French speak French (profound, I know), but I was completely ill-prepared to have to discard any reliance on the English language. I cannot recall ever feeling more overwhelmed the moment that I realised I had to farewell what was left of my comfort zone and try to understand what this 70-year-old Parisienne was rabbiting on about in French. And so I spent the first day of class feeling no less than 75 per cent lost, a stat that was not assisted by my unfortunate grouping with two Vietnamese classmates for a joint oral presentation exercise. Their French sounded to me like, well, Vietnamese.

Now, I have never been the dumb kid in class; a fortuitous existence that I modestly attribute to clever study choices more-so than sheer cleverness. Yep, I avoided Physics at high school as swiftly as I withdrew from Economics at University, because there are some topics that I am never going to understand and I'm really okay with that. But, let me tell you, I ate a very large piece of humble pie (tarte aux humble?) during my first few days of French school. And what kept me going was not only the wise words of Anaïs Nin, but the belief that that sickening 'Oh my God, I'm stupid' feeling is called learning a language in a foreign country. You put yourself out there; you realise that you're going to sound like an idiot when you speak; you accept that you aren't going to understand everything right away; and you're aware that you don't know all the words. But, to try is to learn. And so, by the end of my first week at school, I understood 80 per cent of Madame Héléne's words (still zero from my Vietnamese friends) and progressed to the next level. So, I guess the old adage is true... more often than not, the greatest rewards come from doing the things that scare you the most.

And so my journey through Wonderland continues, a little less scary for two reasons. One, because I'm in Week 4 at school (I'm a big girl now) and, two, because I have discovered that I am being shielded from any craziness in France by the Mad Hatters themselves, French lawmakers. Ladies and gentleman, I give you what are allegedly just some of the laws protecting me in France...

1. You are considered guilty until proven innocent. Seems fair. Just stick to the right place at the right time and you've got nothing to worry about. So let's move on, because number two is a doozy...
2. No pig may be addressed as 'Napoleon' by its owner. Excuse me? Firstly, who, except for Kermit the Frog, is on a first-name basis with a pig? Secondly, how obviously bullied on the playground was this Napoleon guy (the Harry High-Pants wouldn't have helped). While I'm unsure whether this law remains valid today, its prior existence seemed reason enough for me to visit the guy's tomb at Les Invalides just to tell him to toughen up. And given the size (1.2 metres) of his tomb (pictured below), is it any wonder that Monsieur Bonaparte had a (Napoleon) complex. In all seriousness, Porky's remains have been divided up into six coffins that lay inside this grand, yet tiny, tomb, which is surrounded by 12 pillars of victory (and no mention of Waterloo).
3. Between the hours of 8am and 8pm, 70 per cent of the music played on the radio must be from French artists. This one I know to be true, and I kinda like it. Let's keep globalisation to a minimum while Kanye West and Bruno Mars are still getting about the place. 
4. It is illegal to kiss on railways. If this is true, then there's not a great deal of policing going on in this, the city of romance. Public displays of affection (the romantic kind, not the 3am in a nightclub variety) are all around you in France. Perhaps this law applies to kissing on the actual railway tracks and, if that's the case, surely this kind of stupidity is punishable by death?  
5. It is illegal to take photos of police officers or police vehicles, even if they are just in the background. I can confirm, from personal experience (see previous Blog post), that this one is true. And while the presence of this law in Australia would indeed be a travesty (I'm biased, I know), I don't really consider it to be a problem in France. But I'll fly in the face of this ridiculous law and let you be the judge...



6. An ashtray is considered to be a deadly weapon. But clearly cigarettes are the safest things going around, if the number of French smokers is anything to go by. But, no, no, don't come near me with that ashtray. It might kill me. 

Ah yes, the bizarre lives on every day in Paris and I love it. Surely nothing other than sheer absurdity could explain why:

• no government official has considered that the testing of the air raid siren every month for the past 65 years may be a practice that is now just a little antiquated;
• a homeless man made the decision to stand in the road and 'oui' on someone's van in the face of oncoming traffic, rather than urinate from the sidewalk;
• the shops are closed on Sundays and often on Mondays too;
• there are four supermarket aisles dedicated to yoghurt;
• the previous left-wing government legislated a fixed working week of 35 hours;
• it's très chic to eat cheese that makes your fridge smell like a dead rat for weeks, because 'it's one of 365 varieties manufactured in France';
• children have a school-free day every Wednesday, but some schools hold mandatory classes on Saturday mornings; and
• from the age of four, school children have a two-hour lunch break during which they are served an entrée, main and dessert EVERY day (sure beats our canteen selection of meat pies and hotdogs).

Amidst the madness every day, I meet a new classmate with an inspirational story on what led them to Paris to learn French with a bunch of strangers. There's Leticia, a divorced, 50-something, Brazilian mother-of-four, who wanted to do something for herself after dedicating most of her life to her now-adult children. And 23-year-old Nicola, from Berlin, who chose to spend her week-long vacation in Paris learning French each morning and sightseeing alone in the afternoons. And Louis, who moved to France nine months ago in search of a life better than Columbia could ever offer him. And with every new person I meet and every story I hear, I am increasingly inspired by the strength of people. My classmates are from different worlds, age groups and walks of life, but share one thing a common (two if you count poorly-pronounced French): the courage to throw caution to the wind and follow the White Rabbit, because I guess sometimes in order to find yourself, you must first lose yourself.

Every day, I bear witness to less-inspiring stories that remind me that life is no fairy tale. These stories are told on placards that read 'pour manger' (to eat) or 'j'ai faim' (I am hungry) or are shouted out on the métro in the hope of securing a Euro or two from commuters on a packed train. Sadly, the homeless of Paris are scattered from the most popular of monuments to the quietest suburban métro stations. And as I listen to a man share his tale of woe, I can't help but wonder how he got so lost. I can only imagine that he went so far down the rabbit hole that he couldn't find his way back home. And that, too, is madness.

Bek x