Une tranche.
I have sometimes reflected on when exactly I first felt truly at ease in Paris, or France as a whole; at which point the language barrier was reduced, when I was comfortably navigating the cultural norms, and when I actually felt this was my real home.
The truth is that the first six months were extraordinarily difficult, and I really only became aware of just how alone and overwhelmed I had been during that period when it was years behind me, thinking to myself now, how on earth did I survive all that so alone? I would say it really wasn’t until around the one-year mark that I felt more acclimated and “relaxed” (although if I ever feel truly relaxed in France is up for debate).
A lot of the initial overwhelm and daily exhaustion during this fragile introductory period also had to do with the fact that a worldwide pandemic was still raging when I moved here; I was navigating changing regulations and health codes on top of everything else, which was…a lot. I really would not recommend making any major cross-continental moves during a global pandemic. Alas, the pandemic was also the event that made me realize how important it was for me to try and live in Paris and rebuild my life and career here, which had been a lifelong goal and dream.
Eventually, I signed my first real CDI contract and actually began working at a proper French company and in a French office, the super fun and not stressful at all details of which I'll save for another blog post.
During this time, I distinctly remember a period of weekends where, on any given Saturday, I would be so exhausted from all the things I was learning, all the new French vocabulary I had to master, all the exchanges with my new colleagues in a language where I did not feel confident, that I would crash hard by the time the weekend rolled around.
I would lie in bed, drained and beyond tired, with no mental space or physical energy for anything. On those days, I would get up and go outside, go to my local boulangerie, very politely ask for “une tradition, s’il vous plaît,” take the warm baguette loaf, press my card against the reader to pay, and finish with a “merci, bonne journée,” before going back to my apartment to collapse; that single transaction was all I was able to do in an entire day.
I was so done.
Nobody tells you how dramatic the mental fatigue is of managing everything in another language. Your brain works on overtime for the first 6-12 months; even the most minor of problems and the most mild of interactions can suddenly devolve into Herculean feats that send you spiraling into tears in your bed.
I once asked an American friend when it gets easier. He told me, “The first time you’re at a real Paris party, and you’re having a good time, you’ll suddenly realize you spent the whole night speaking in French, understanding their French, understanding the jokes, and having a good time. That’s the first marker. The second marker is when you start dreaming in French.”
He was absolutely right. I vividly remember that first party for me, when I realized abruptly at the end of the night (and with fierce, glowing pride) that I had managed to chat and laugh with French people all night long and understood everything, even making others laugh. Oh my god, I was funny in another language!
Part of the reason my brain was in such overdrive for the first year is that I was still translating everything in my head, whether at work or around French people, causing my reactions to be slow, and it was so tiring. I can’t pinpoint exactly the moment where I simply understood and didn’t have to mentally translate, but it cut my energy depletion rate in half. There are also the actual nerves of constantly being afraid to look stupid, to say the wrong thing, to be incorrectly understood.
At work, it went even further; it had never occurred to me that I would suddenly have to re-learn all of Microsoft Office in French, googling French Excel formulas that I knew by heart in English, because my French boss would like to work on files together with me, adjusting the spreadsheets I made for her. My back-office assistant, who had seemed mildly terrified when she first met me, as she could not speak English, seemed deeply relieved when I told her in halting, broken French on my first day of work that I insisted she only speak French with me; humbly requesting that I rely on her help if I didn’t understand something in an email. She ended up being incredibly kind and supportive, and I adored working with her; her patience with me as I navigated my job in an entirely new language is something I will never forget.
Always, I opted to challenge myself, knowing that if I went all-in, I would learn the fastest.
I had changed my phone language to French long before I moved to Paris, but I also insisted on keeping my work laptop in French as well, and with a French keyboard. When at bistros, if the servers picked up on my accent and blithely asked “English, Madame ?” while holding up an English menu, I responded only in French, telling them I prefer French only. I avoided American expats for a long time, having met with a few when I first moved to Paris and getting discouraged; many of the other expat women I met had moved to France for a man/love and were struggling to connect with my love of the country, refusing to properly learn the language or assimilate, a fact that never failed to irritate me (I would like to note that I am well aware not all American women in Paris are like this!).
I began to mentally and sometimes, in quiet moments of solitude in my apartment, verbally repeat to myself my favorite new French phrase: ça viendra - it will come. It was a reminder to be patient with myself, to be patient with my new life unfurling slowly but surely, that it would all come: the language, the ease of navigating my new world, friends, and maybe also one day, love. I didn’t rush anything. If I am to rebuild here, I want it to be rebuilt correctly, holding to my values and morals, not betraying myself for quick comfort.
But of course, there were still moments where I inevitably would make grosses erreurs.
As the French became easier and easier for me, and as I began to reclaim more and more of my energy and confidence, I began to take delight in exploring my neighborhood on the weekends more; previously, the prospect of trying all these cool and trendy little shops and restaurants had terrified me.
On one sunny Saturday, I decided to venture into a local Italian épicerie (a small, fine foods shop) to grab some mortadella, which I was strongly craving. The young French girl behind the counter greeted me as I entered, and I told her, in my newly confident French, that I would like some mortadella, please.
“How much?” She responded with a smile.
“Une tranche,” I said, with the utmost confidence, pleased that I correctly knew how to order a dozen slices.
She blinked, her smile frozen, and gave me a very pointed "oui, Madame," before carefully slicing a single slice of mortadella, wrapping it up, and handing me the package with the utmost politeness.
I was mortified; I had mixed up une tranche (a slice) with une douzaine (a dozen). I thanked her, paid, and left, too embarrassed to rectify my mistake.
Today, I would have laughed at myself and apologized to her for my bad French and had zero shame.
But that’s exactly how it all comes, slowly and in single pieces and slices, and never all at once. Sometimes, all you can handle at one time is une tranche, and that's fine.
How to order charcuterie in France:
- Ordering by slice: "Je voudrais (#) tranches de (charcuterie selection), s'il vous plaît."
- Ordering by the gram: "Je voudrais (#) grammes de (charcuterie selection), s'il vous plaît."
- Thinly sliced can be requested by saying "en tranches fines."
- Don't be embarrassed, ordering charcuterie in France is objectively intimidating and terrifying.
- Use the experience as a beautiful analogy that everything will get easier, one tranche at a time.
