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Student Voices

maybe i will learn.

Third Prize in the 2023–24 Writing Contest
The author on the shore.

The first time I ever landed solo in Paris Charles de Gaulle, I was labeled an ‘unaccompanied minor’ and had the colorful AirFrance Kids tag hanging around my neck; I was 12 years old – a little too old to be fascinated by the lions and the zebras on it. Before I left home, I’d heard my mother on a phone call, chatting away to one of her sisters about my forthcoming trip with an expression riddled with what I could only describe as fear and joy and pride and worry and everything in between. Over the background static, her sister asked, “Has she ever traveled alone before? Does she know how to get to her gates?” – my mother had replied, “No, but maybe she will learn.”

The last time I landed solo in Paris Charles de Gaulle, the lady at the immigration desk asked me, “Do you speak French?” With the little of the language I had in my pocket, and in an accent I had scraped up from Gabonese pavements in the few years that I had lived there, I said to her “non, mais peut-être que j’apprendrai.” She looked at her computer screen for a moment, then looked back up, waited 2 seconds for me to finish my (unbeknownst to me) unfinished sentence, and with a blank face said to me “maybe you will learn what?”

I spent 2 months in Paris last summer, and every new day, I woke up with a different answer to her question – 64 in total. I doubt I will ever meet her again, but maybe, just maybe, she will stumble on this piece one day. And maybe in one sitting, as she reads, she will find answers enough to fill the hole in our conversation that I left empty. Or maybe she won’t.

But dear lady, in case you are reading:

On that first day, after our conversation, I walked through the airport’s glass doors, out into the sun, and there was lesson number 1 waiting for me: that the Parisian summer heat is brutal, and that the sweatshirts piled up in my suitcase that had tipped it not-so-slightly over the edge of 50lbs would be of no benefit to me for the next 2 months. I climbed into an Uber and learned very quickly too that my broken and messy French, just as it had not pleased you, would not be pleasing to other Parisians either – the locals would prefer if I defaulted to English. I arrived at Cité Universitaire and learned that the elevators in your residential buildings are barely wide enough to fit 3 people, or more specifically, a girl and 2 pieces of luggage; from then on, the stairs would become my friend, as did the bottles of Evian I would gulp down after every successful ascension.

Now that I think about it, it seems as if my earlier number was inaccurate because I must’ve learned more than 64 lessons in those first 24 hours. But don’t worry, day 1 was a day of difficulties necessary for me to enjoy the days forthcoming.

On day 2, I learned that the French had made commitments to the environment that they intended on keeping, so I bought my first Franprix reusable bag with pride and brought it along with me in every grocery store I stepped into on days 3, 4, and 5, before forgetfulness got a hold of me and I was roped into buying another one. That wouldn’t be the last time.

From days 6 to 12, I felt like my training wheels had finally been taken off. I was getting on the T3A graciously, finding my way through the crowds onto the tram, sliding my Navigo card onto a scanner and placing it back into hiding, diligently fearing pickpockets. I now knew that there were 5 tram stops from Cité to Avenue de France, and could now practically feel it in my bones 30 seconds before it was time to step off. I had also learned that silence on the tram was the preferred state of motion for the French – Americans giggling at 8 in the morning was a disruption of peace – and so I too, plugged my ears in and gazed out the window, after all, “when in Rome….”

(day 14) At this point I had still not decided on a church to attend, but I did learn a fun fact: over half of the public holidays in France are religious.

(day 17) Roses are red, and violets are blue, but the flowers of Jardin du Luxembourg are of all the colors you could possibly imagine and more.

Dear lady, by day 24 strange sights had become familiar, and every section in the escargot’s shell held some memory for me. I learned that Montmartre was the best place to be on the day of Fête de la Musique, and I learned that Châtelet-Les Halles was my one-stop shop for all of life’s necessities and then some. I had learned how to cross my legs at sidewalk restaurants, people-watch and sip coffee as the 2 hours of lunch passed by. I had learned how to lie down in Parc Montsouris and soak in the sun (a foe now turned comrade) until it set, had memorized the running trails around the 14th arrondissement, and had nailed down the perfect pesto pasta dinner recipe, although mainly, the few finger movements needed to navigate to UberEats were what got me through the nights.

I now knew without thinking twice that I could get off at Denfert-Rochereau on the RER B and be right at the Catacombs – an ode to when Paris was still above sea level. I knew that if I got off 2 stops later, there would be a great ice cream place nearby called GATO, and if I walked down for 6 minutes and took a left, there would be the Pantheon where Victor Hugo lay; if I continued to walk down that street, soon enough I would end up at a comedy club. I knew that if I got off at Palais Royal-Musée du Louvre on Ligne 7, taking Exit 1, I would be right at the least-known entrance of the Louvre where the shortest lines are. But I also knew that many tourists, having discovered that entrance, joined that line thinking they’d scored in the Paris vs. Tourists game, only to realize that it’s an entrance solely for those with reservations. I now knew that next to the line those people stood on, there was an overpriced Starbucks where they would correctly spell the name “Tiffany,” as opposed to “Stéphanie” which every other French Starbucks resorted to. And I knew that whenever I felt homesick, if I hopped on the RER A to La Defense, I would physically be transported to a place quite identical to Chicago – skyscrapers all around.

(day 25) Did you know that the trains stop running at 1 am? I learned that one the hard way: a beautiful night’s outdoor movie screening on the lawns of Parc de la Villette, followed by my friends and I sprinting marathon distances to catch the very last RER C and B that could take us home.

On days 26, 33, and 40, I visited your sites of attraction. I wandered the grounds of Amboise, looked over the river banks and into the tunnel Leonardo da Vinci and Francis allegedly used to walk through. I sauntered through Monet’s garden and saw his lily pond – it was here that I believe I began to truly understand beauty. And of course, there was Château de Versailles, where if I closed my eyes for long enough, I could imagine myself as royalty; I was willing to suck up the tight-ribbed corsets and dresses with diameters many inches too wide, for the experience of the grandeur and opulence the nobility had.

On days 27, 34, and 41, I toured three of your neighboring countries – I did indeed feel like a stranger there. When I arrived back at Cité each weekend, it felt like I had come back home.

(day 45) I was a Lingco maestro at this point, and my grammatical mistakes, though still many, had graduated from beginner to intermediate; the moments Google Docs failed to catch them, ironically, were moments of immense satisfaction.

(day 46) The beginning of la galère (translation: a hard time).

“La galère” is a term the French use to describe the period when almost all train lines are down for maintenance and getting to work on time is near impossible. My 15-minute journey to classes daily turned into 50 on a good day. It was, in fact, a hard time.

On day 47, the clock began to speed up, and the end started to draw near. But dear lady, this city that you call yours was becoming mine too, and I was not ready to let go. In the following days, I sat for more theater performances than I could count and checked every museum off my bucket list. I frolicked about your streets on a ‘chocolate walking tour of Paris’ and sat in every garden I’d yet to visit for picnics. I danced at more festivals and spent evenings at the top of Centre Pompidou, taking in my final sights of the city. I was still learning, but no longer in the awkward, obvious, rickety way. Now, it was in the nostalgic, wishful, longing way, holding on to every bit of knowledge I could as if it would be my last.

(day 54) A thought from that day: “The servers at Eric Kayser have become our best friends. I will miss them.”

(day 55) On this day, I learned to surf. I snuck away to Brittany’s coast and rode the Atlantic’s waves, swam in its seas, and basked on its shores. On this day, I experienced peace.

Dear lady, do you remember our conversation? By day 60, I had mastered the use of the neuter pronoun, ‘le,’ that’s used in French to refer back to the subject one was previously speaking of. I thought back to the answer I gave you when you asked if I spoke French – “non, mais peut-être que j’apprendrai.” The ‘le’ was missing. Perhaps that is why you looked at me in silence and did not understand what I was speaking of. Perhaps if I had replied, “non, mais peut-être que je l’apprendrai,” this story would have been different. Maybe you would have smiled at me warmly, in full understanding, and wished me “bonne chance.” Maybe you would have given me tips and tricks, and taught me all the lessons I needed to know before I stepped out into your real world. But maybe you would never have asked me what I planned on learning, and maybe I would never have paused to reflect. On day 60, I thought of our conversation and wanted to tell you thank you. On day 60, I began composing this letter in response to your question, “maybe you will learn what?”

“Perhaps if I had replied, ‘non, mais peut-être que je l’apprendrai,’ this story would have been different. Maybe you would have smiled at me warmly, in full understanding, and wished me ‘bonne chance.’ … But maybe you would never have asked me what I planned on learning, and maybe I would never have paused to reflect.”

(day 61) Maybe I will learn that ‘la bise,’ the French cheek-kiss greeting, is more endearing than scary.

(day 62) Maybe I will learn that doux white wine is superior, and that I’m actually not a huge fan of the cheese.

(day 63) I’m staring out the Metro Ligne 6 train crossing over the Seine. The Eiffel Tower looks pretty from here. Maybe I will learn to deeply appreciate other cities the way I have appreciated Paris. Maybe I will learn what it means to treasure every moment: to capture them, wrap my fingers around them in fist form, and drop them in a glass jar whose lid I screw on tight. Maybe I will learn to hold this jar close to my heart.

(day 64) Dear lady, maybe I will learn that hellos may be hard but goodbyes are ten times harder.

 

Tiffany Akinyoade, Class of 2026, participated in the Summer 2023 Intermediate French program at the University of Chicago Center in Paris.