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Women on Junior Year Abroad

It is 7:30 p.m. (1:30 Eastern Standard Time--do you know where your daughters are?

I spent an evening with five women, all between the ages of 20 and 21, who are studying abroad in Paris.  They all come from similar backgrounds, similar family structures, ‘good’ homes and more-than respectable four-year colleges and universities in the States.  Here for a semester only, arriving in January of this year, they are either immersed in Anglo campuses for classes in French (some of which include Art History, Political Science, French, and Marketing) or matriculated into the European system, taking one or two classes at La Sorbonne  One is interning at a foundation doing translations and other administrative tasks.  Some pay top dollar to share a fully equipped flat near St. Paul in the 4th, others are sheltered with posh families in the 7th and 16th.  They were a handsome bunch, here for the scene and being seen, experiencing their first trip across the Atlantic and their first taste of European living.

The rendez-vous was at Les Etages in the Marais, a convenient, convivial spot any time of day, filled with suits, friends, gays, French and Anglo-alike.  (It’s my win-win go-to spot for American guests and friends.)  We chomped on caramelized peanuts and herby green pitted olives as we gabbed and downed our Happy Hour sangria and mojitos faster than I realized.

The group was comprised of like-minded upper-middle-class women with families back home supporting shopping sprees and dinners that I thought parents could only afford. And those that are wired a sizeable allowance were able to afford  jaunts to different European destinations at their choosing, one including a Dublin bender for St. Paddy’s day.

A firey blonde ambition, with a raspy voice and the confidence of  21-year-old thirtysomethin, led the group and jumped right into her latest conquest.  Taking out her digital camera, she showed me a picture of a dark-haired Algerian businessman in a suit with his arm around her, kissing her on the cheek with the backdrop of a velvet swanky club banquette.  “Ok, so he’s not that cute.  A bit chubby…,” she sighed.

It was at the club Doobie’s, off the Champs, which sounded to me more like an unhip diner rather than some posh spot.  He and his friends had invited her to their table and had generously shared their bottle of vodka even when she had to pick herself up off the ground after a tumble off the sofa.  They danced that night, but parted ways at the end after exchanging phone numbers.  In the 24 hours following their separation, he sent text messages begging to see her again immediately.  When she told him she was sick in order to avoid plans, he would text "Oh you poor baby, let me know when you’re all better." She has stopped calling altogether after getting the night-out she wanted.  Fresh from a break-up with her aspiring actor boyfriend, she complained her experience with French men left her with the impression they are overly sensitive.  Her ex’s clingy habits, constant calls and whines if she wanted a good night’s sleep didn’t allow her the freedom and independence she said she needed. 

Only two of the girls sitting around the low-lying tables at the converted hotel cum bar were up for grabs in the city of love; the others were faithful to their down-home honeys.

“I’m scared,” said another girl about an aggressive Frenchman who was constantly sending her text messages on her portable phone.  “I mean, I want him this guy to take me out and buy me drinks and take me out to dinner and everything but I don’t want to ever, like…”

“No, it’s not worth it!” squealed another.

We were by far the loudest table, catching glances and smirks from admirers at the table next door.

The discussion then turned to the MTV "Real World" series, which is currently being filmed in Paris.  It's a reality show about strangers picked to live in a dream location to find out what happens when people stop being polite, a show that will guarantee to up the in-your-face quotient of Americana, drama queens and kings told to play up their attitudes and voices for the sake of the lens.  It is doubtful this will ease relations between the culture-clashing nations.  “I just want to be able to say that I met them,” the jock said.

Unavoidably, the conversation gave way to the current Franco-American tensions.  “A guy from the French military pointed a gun at me,” said the bold one. “That was scary,” remembered her friend who was with her at the time. “It was funny,” the bold one laughed off.

They had been out for the night, all gussied up, enjoying an evening of fine French wines, laughing and taking up air space, when they passed guards in front of a building.  Recognizing immediately they were Americans, the "cute" armed men thought it might be a good tease to flirt at gunpoint. 

(Perhaps it was, indeed, a harmless act, but I know that with the increasing tensions here, tension that I myself have felt among friends who have been invited to my own home, this is no time for loaded jokes.)

When the last crunches had left only candy crumbs, the ladies moved the party down the street, across rue de Rivoli towards the river to La Perla, not the lingerie store, but rather a pseudo Mexican bar-restaurant stretched with fake plastic trees and plants, a less than life plastic sailfish, and a plastic ‘cerveza pacifico’ life preserver hung over the mirrored bar detailing the Mexican wine and margarita specials in red.  It was not a particularly lively clientele, except, of course, for our table of six American girls.

When I asked them the bars they frequented to meet these elusive French men, who "cross their legs like women," "smoke incessantly" and "wear black turtlenecks," one answered, “I’d like to know.”  They have all found it difficult to integrate here, and those who have found boyfriends have been dissatisfied with the amount of freedom they allow them or the lack of good-old American machismo displayed by this culture.  With their slight frames and delicate hands, it would be a tough match in the ring should they set up their homeland loves against the Euros to have at it.  They were even less thrilled at the prospect of the American guys here in the city, those on their study abroad programs or those they have met hiding in the Anglophone pubs like the Frog and Princess. 

“American guys who come here are, like, philosophers,” said one. 

“Or gay,” said another.  (That doesn’t help their case either.)

“The one thing that’s keeping me from moving back to France is the amount of boys,” said the jock.  The athletic singleton had only one French kiss of which to speak.  They needed the language of love to communicate, for neither her French nor his English was getting them where they needed to go.  A woman at the bar where they met acted as translator before the couple gave up talking and locked lips for their first and only.  Summing it up she said, “That’s why we eat what we want because there are no boys in this country,” as she dug into her burrito.

At La Perla, the food was not as dazzling as my company and lacked presentation and umph.  The girls all ordered the same beef burrito, except the smart blond, who ordered the spinach burrito (with a questionably French goat cheese addition), and I successfully went out on a limb with reasonably priced lobster quesedillas with papaya for 8,95E. They were two shapely half-moons stuffed delicately with cheese, onions, red peppers, fish and papaya, served with a cool and spicy mango sauce unpleasantly discolored white by the overpowering overhead red lights.  

When the (expensive) glass pitcher of Margaritas had become transparent, the girls all had a cigarette as they discussed papers and homework they needed to turn in to get by with their classes.  I gathered that much more time is spent outside of the classroom than in, which seems in line with my own junior-yea- abroad experience.  I was expecting a little more craziness from their stories, but apparently that is reserved for late-nights in Barcelona with a tan Australian, hazy Amsterdam run-ins at the coffee shops and pancake houses, and Irish blokes who win the lottery buying blinding pint after stumbling pint for his new mates. 

These privileged women are transient guests, bound by college-campus mentality where comfort holds them back from truly exploring life here.  Naturally, the bilingual dream is to share the experience with someone of the culture to really comprehend life on a more complete level, but breaking into the social circles here is less than easy, and takes much longer than four-months.  It is true that each one will bring back memories, posters, journals, and even a few extra pounds from her visit, but their short stay is only a taste of what another life can be life, which is already a good start for being a global citizen.  I was confronted by a French houseguest last night who joked that the war in Iraq was "probably a good thing for Americans because it will at least allow the soldiers to see a country other than their own." 

So where are your daughters at midnight, 6pm EST?  They are heading to bed.

- Frog and Princess – 9 rue Princess, 6th, M˚ Mabillon, 01.40.51.77.38 Open M-F 5.30pm-2am; Sat, Sun noon-2am.