It began as an unremarkable Tuesday. I got up far too early to attend a class that lasts far too long, especially considering it concerns grammar that I fear that I will never really grasp.
Afterward, I needed to go downtown too pick up some necessities (wine, cigarettes, and, because I am still American after all, toothpaste). I walked to Monoprix, somewhat of a French equivalent of Target, which, like Target, I frequent way too much.
I picked up a baguette at “Le Petit Chou,” the veritable golden child of boulangeries in the area. Feeling brave, I even bought that day’s newspaper, in hopes of being able to siphon out at least the main points of various current events.
As I was doing all of this, walking purposefully through shortcut back-alleys, answering shopkeepers’ questions and pleasantries, loading my Carrefour reusable grocery bag with Camembert, plain yogurt, and Nutella, I admit I was probably a bit too self-congratulating.
“How comfortable this all feels now,” I thought to myself. “I must really be quite adapted to French life.”
With all of these rather pretentious ponderings nestled in my brain, I entered caught the next tram back to my dorms. As I entered and took my seat, I noticed a woman clutching her chest briskly walking in and standing by the door, with a hint of discomfort. Curious to what her problem may be, I continued to surreptitiously spy on her.
As the tram lurched at the next stop, the woman tentatively pulled at the neckline of her sweater and peered inside.
Slowly, a furry set of ears emerged from behind her wool collar. Smiling into what should have been just cleavage, she reached into her shirt, and pulled out, with one sweeping presentation, a tiny dusty-gray kitten.
The jig ostensibly being up, the woman seemed to have no fear of reproach as she brought the kitten lovingly up to her cheek, and patted it affectionately on its kiwi-sized head.
No longer concerned with social norms regarding staring, I could not tear my eyes away from this woman and her cat as I tried to diagnose her particular mental neurosis. Surely some nice men in white coats would be swarming her soon, attacking her with a syringe and a lint roller.
However, as I looked around, it seemed that no one else seemed to be anticipating any sort of intervention. Indeed, perhaps more surprising than the tiny creature on the tram was the fact that I seemed to be the only one disturbed by it. Apparently, to the French, kittens are as commonplace as iPods on public transport.
To clarify, I do not believe in signs; I believe in irony.
But even I will accept that perfection in timing of this event. And, I am glad that I was not allowed to be too self-satisfied for too long.
The beauty of being foreign is being surprised. I do not want everything that happens here to be completely natural, mundane. What is the point of being abroad if you become so accustomed to your area that you no longer able to see with an outside view? I want to see things differently, because, I believe, that is how I am able to value everything I see to this extent. I pray that I will always see magnificence of my surroundings, that I will always appreciate the differences in culture and history, and that whenever I see a domesticated animal being pulled out of someone’s clothing on public transport, I will laugh until my stomach hurts.
