I broke down 2 weeks ago and finally asked my mom to send my favorite pair of jeans to me here in Nantes. Originally I didn't pack them with me because I was afraid that the faded denim would appear out-of-place next to the dark denim the French prefer. Now I find that I really couldn't care any less.
I have come to accept that I will never look "French" in any sense of the word - my shirts are too bright and my pants are too light. In fact today as I walked out of the fac and made my way back to the dorm I couldn't help but to notice how my light trench coat stood out in comparison to all the French students around me flocking to the restaurants for lunch who were all dressed in their dark jackets in varying shades of black, charcoal and navy.
So if I can't assimilate, I will stand out. And what better way to do this than in a pair of old jeans?
This was my reasoning, at least. Only last week when I received a package from my parents that was sent the same day as my jeans I was told that there was no other package for me. Strange.
That was Tuesday. I was beginning to lose hope that my jeans would ever come to me, that they were perhaps lost somewhere in the great in-between between Virginia and Nantes. But today there was a slip in my mailbox informing me that I have a package at La Poste that I can pick up at 9h00 tomorrow.
So there will be jeans after all. And I will be wearing them, a streak of light amidst the dark colors of the French.
I have come to accept that I will never look "French" in any sense of the word - my shirts are too bright and my pants are too light. In fact today as I walked out of the fac and made my way back to the dorm I couldn't help but to notice how my light trench coat stood out in comparison to all the French students around me flocking to the restaurants for lunch who were all dressed in their dark jackets in varying shades of black, charcoal and navy.
So if I can't assimilate, I will stand out. And what better way to do this than in a pair of old jeans?
This was my reasoning, at least. Only last week when I received a package from my parents that was sent the same day as my jeans I was told that there was no other package for me. Strange.
That was Tuesday. I was beginning to lose hope that my jeans would ever come to me, that they were perhaps lost somewhere in the great in-between between Virginia and Nantes. But today there was a slip in my mailbox informing me that I have a package at La Poste that I can pick up at 9h00 tomorrow.
So there will be jeans after all. And I will be wearing them, a streak of light amidst the dark colors of the French.
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