décalage horaire

| jet lag (masculine noun) | /dekalaʒ ɔʀɛʀ/

It’s only been three days since I stumbled, Dramamine drowsy, from the train into Bordeaux’s Gare St. Jean. Since then, I’ve bought a French phone and organized several walk-throughs for potential apartments. I can’t do much else (open a bank account, send in my immigration papers, etc.) until I find permanent housing. Consequently, a few dozen homeless expats wander aimlessly through the cobbled streets of Bordeaux and its surrounding suburbs.

I just want my own space, something I can meld to make my own over the next eight months.

I’m attempting to take everything in stride. I’ve enjoyed my jaunts through the public gardens and bustling plazas, the smell of cigarettes and fresh bread. The way French rolls off my tongue like water. The novelty of a new country and its sleepy culture. I really love this city, and my housing situation is simply a challenge to overcome.

I am beyond grateful that I have the support of my fellow assistants. We’ve been conspiring since our admission into the program last April, and I’ve been blessed to meet so many wonderful people already. And, yes, so far all of my friends are American. But Americans seem to flock to each other like moths to lamplight. I mean, when the world hates you, you’ve got to stick it out together, right? In any case, I’m meeting some other assistants tomorrow night, so my Bordelais friendships should soon extend outside the North American continent.

About Gabriella

I'm a twenty-something insomniac with a caffeine addiction and chronic wanderlust. I recently graduated with my M.A. in French, and I've spent the past two years living and working as an English teacher in France. I now work as an English professor at a university in Lille, where my students are learning to never omit the Oxford comma.
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