Comment dit-on Nike?

I looked out the window and saw a patchwork country of some yellow, some green squares, with pockets of dark trees embracing neighborhoods of steep-roofed houses. Sheep, window boxes, balconies, graffiti, and cigarette smoke awaited me below.


But what I would learn first as I lugged my fat suitcase through the Charles de Gaulle airport was that the French are assertive. They're not going to wait to get where they're going, even if you think it'd be more polite if they did. And even more, they expect you to assert yourself, too.

That's a problem for the American girl who doesn't even take initiative with her American friends.

But she (*cough cough* who happens to be me) would soon learn that it is better to assert than to say nothing at all. ALWAYS.

The French are nice most of the time, but not always--just like most other people. But they are way more likely to lend a helping hand or forgive your bad grammar if you actually try to say something (again, a problem for moi). My first day on the job, we visited Michel, a nice old man who reminded me of my grandpa. I was essentially silent. And I felt awful. Michel was still kind, but I must have seemed rude to him and my companions. I was afraid of embarrassing myself, but I ended up embarrassing myself anyway by doing nothing at all. I saw our guide, Miroslav from the Czech Republic, struggle through each conversation: no one got upset that he slowed down the flow. Only his friends corrected him, and not unkindly. It was time to try again--and try harder.

The next day I inserted myself in conversations and asked questions (at least to Miroslav, who is learning just like I am). An amazing thing happened: People listened. People cared. And I felt a million times better.

It wasn't like I hadn't heard that advice before, but it's hard to change habits that you've held to for your entire ninteen years.

It's the same thing when you're crossing the street. Sometimes there's a nice little green light-up walky man who tells you when to go, and sometimes there's not. You just gotta go. Even when there is the walky man, the French are waiting. They turn as you're walking, inching their cars right up to your face and waiting for you to get past. The motorcyclists are even worse: they wait for no one at all, weaving in between the cars on the road like a bunch of crazies. They do what they want.

And if you want to get anything done, you have to just do it, too.