My Experience Trying to Become French

Julien, a tennis coach with broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and two terraces filled to the brim with his marijuana plants that we were never allowed to sit on.

Back home in New York, everyone said I would fall for a French guy if I moved to France, and sure enough, that guy turned out to be Julien. (Though, originally, it was a guy named Nico, but he had a girlfriend.)

It was the summer of 2008. I was 28, had made the bold decision to relocate to Montpellier, France, where I paid just 250 euros a month in rent. I devoured a crusty baguette every single day, soaked up the sun on the Mediterranean beaches, and drank my fill of pale French beer at lively open-air nightclubs.

Before I knew it, I had become that girl, dating the French guy, living the quintessential French dream we all imagine to be perfect.

And it truly felt that way...

...until it didn't.

Had I stayed in Montpellier, I might have kept living that French fantasy. But after several months, I realized the French dream didn’t quite align with French reality, and that inevitable return ticket was always looming in the background.

Leaving New York Behind

I had spent eight years in New York City, moving from one bug-infested apartment to another. My job in television programming was described by a colleague as simply “shuffling color bars around a screen all day.”

I was exhausted by the overcrowded, overpriced city and longed for more than just a brief getaway. With dual American and French citizenship from my Caribbean father, I thought a life in France might be the change I needed.

So, I enrolled in a language school. Throughout Europe, there are small, informal institutions offering about three hours of conversational lessons a day. They help students find accommodation and organize group outings. These schools are often geared toward European college students, but they draw anyone seeking a short-term escape.

For me, it served as a crutch, a way to ease into a new chapter of French life.

After transferring 1,000 euros for my first month at Odyssea Language School, I went online to purchase a one-way British Airways ticket for a June departure. But then, panic set in. Instead, I booked a refundable round-trip ticket with a return in October. That way, if my savings ran out and I couldn't secure a job, I’d have a pre-paid way home.

The school was located in the Languedoc region of southern France. From the online pictures, the town appeared to be delightfully suburban, a world away from the hustle of New York and my college town of Boston.

In fact, Montpellier is the seventh-largest city in France.

My peaceful little slice of heaven

When I first arrived, I squeezed my belongings into a tiny, closet-sized room in an apartment the school had arranged for me. I shared the space with a girl who spoke very little English and even less French.

Despite the language barrier, I managed to explore the town on my own before classes began, figuring it out as I went along.

Montpellier is a sprawling little city, famous for its large universities, which draw over 50,000 students every year.

The outskirts of the city are lined with tall apartment blocks and department stores, while a small metro system connects the town center. The Place de la Comédie, the central square, is paved with white and cream-colored stones and surrounded by a labyrinth of quaint shops and eateries.

There were countless historical buildings to admire, but one that stands out is a plaque commemorating one of the first medical schools in France. It had been there long before the United States even existed. Suddenly, my decade of studying American History felt a little less significant.

On a guided tour organized by the school, I learned about the region's southern European history, predating modern borders. Many of the locals still speak Catalan and are eager to share stories about the area's connection to Spain before it was incorporated into France. They made sure Catalan names were displayed alongside French ones, showcasing their enduring sense of independence—a spirit I would come to understand more fully when I eventually found work.

The Spaniards taught us how to play ‘Merde.’

The school hosted wine and cheese mixers for newcomers and organized bus trips to Avignon and Carcassonne. They also planned trivia nights at the local British pub, The Shakespeare, and made sure we all gathered for outdoor screenings of the World Cup, especially when France was knocked out.

I could manage a basic “Comment allez-vous?” but I couldn’t sustain a conversation for more than a few minutes before my brain hit a wall.

No stress. These schools don’t operate on a fixed schedule. You can start at any point, join a class suited to your level, and 'graduate' to the next level whenever your teacher thinks you're ready. This flexibility made it easy for me to meet all kinds of new people, including:

Jim – An American film editor who was taking a break between projects to master a new language.

Marianna – A lively, stunning, curly-haired Russian-Italian who would never wait in line for anything.

Hannah – A daring Canadian who eventually talked me into scaling an off-limits cliff in Marseilles because we had heard the waters were a perfect shade of blue (they were, but freezing cold).

Felippa – A cheerful Swede who surprisingly revealed that Ikea product names actually have real meanings, and who would later become my roommate in a much larger and more comfortable apartment.

A young German couple, fresh with a newborn, spending their year-long parental leave touring Europe.

Along with a lively group of dance-loving Singaporeans on exchange, a fun-loving crew of Italian nuclear scientists sponsored by their company, and a boisterous bunch of Spaniards.

A group of us would ride our bikes to a nearby beach in the afternoons. One day, I found a huge red checkered sheet hanging on our apartment’s clothesline, and we'd spread it out on the sand while everyone contributed their share of cheese, cured meats, chips, fruit, and baguettes.

The Spaniards had a car, chain-smoked like chimneys, and soon taught us a card game they called 'Merde!' (Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is).

Sadly, we ended up mostly speaking English, the one language we all could understand. Despite our efforts, speaking French all day was just too exhausting. Eventually, I nailed the accent, and that was thanks to a lot of fruit and a rather questionable pick-up line.

Raspberries, strawberries, and frozen juice.

After a few weeks, I realized that if I wanted to stay in Montpellier long-term, I needed to find a job. With the euro almost double the value of the dollar back then, my savings were running low fast.

Sadly, finding a job was nearly impossible, as youth unemployment hovered around 20%. Employers were hesitant to hire part-time workers because once they did, they were bound by strict labor laws.

The Russian-Italian convinced me to try working at an Irish bar in town by telling the owner my first name, Channon, would give me some Irish street cred. That plan fell apart when he realized I was African American.

Instead, he offered me a part-time gig making frozen juice at his new Jus Plus store in the mall. It was a new concept in France at the time, and I guess I looked like someone who could handle a blender.

I quickly mastered the frozen mixes, mostly based on apple juice, and efficiently blended them, calling out drink orders to the customers as I worked.

"FRRREZ!"

"FRRRRAMBWAZE!"

(Fraise = strawberry, framboise = raspberry)

Customers would stare at me, confused, and I couldn't figure out why. It was only when my kind coworkers, Stella and Charles, explained that a hard American "r" doesn’t quite work in French. I quickly adjusted by softening the sound, using the middle of my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I would describe it as a mix of a gentle g, w, and que sound.

"Fgwquezzeeee"

"Fgwquambwazzee"

It worked! Stella also kindly pushed me to speak French more often. Charles, being a musician, took it upon himself to teach me about my worker rights and passionately talked about the youth-led revolutions springing up everywhere.

The "mec" (guy) taught me something quite different altogether.

Le mec et la petite amie (the guy and the girlfriend)

French people do enjoy their wine, bread, and cheese. But they also down plenty of cheap beer and stock up on canned meats, packaged toast, bags of processed cookies, and cartons of ultra-pasteurized milk.

I was sipping beer with a group of friends at a café (which is actually a bar), when a guy named Julien approached me and asked in English:

"Where are you from?"

"New York," I replied.

"Oh, really?" he said, then added, "I thought you were from paradise."

Was it the French accent? Or maybe the tennis instructor physique? Either way, I was instantly smitten.

We had one date. He kept texting me, and after a few weeks, he called me his "petite amie." I quickly realized that relationships could develop so easily in France.

Julien had been living off chômage (unemployment benefits) for nearly two years and would gasp whenever I used too much of his precious butter on my baguette. He knew only a bit more English than what he’d used to flirt with me, so our relationship was mostly about what you'd expect it to be about.

One day, he finally managed to scrape together some money for gas, and we drove to the beach. We swam out as the waves grew rough, the salty water stinging my nose.

My days were carefree and filled with sunshine, until suddenly, I found myself struggling to breathe.

The French approach – No bills, no rules, no stress!

I’ll never know if it was the saltwater, but about a week after the beach, my lungs began to tighten. I could barely manage a wheeze. One morning, it became so bad that I woke up in a panic, sinking to the floor beside my bed, feeling as if my throat had turned into a red cocktail straw.

When I entered the doctor's office, there was no receptionist, just him. I signed in on a piece of paper. He listened to my wheezing lungs and wrote me a prescription for expectorant and a calming agent. When I asked about the payment, I mentioned my French citizenship but confessed that I hadn't worked long enough to get a medical card.

He told me, 'Well, you're French, so you shouldn't have to pay,' and kindly let me go.

The medication cost around 15 euros, but in the weeks that followed, my infected lungs never fully recovered. I never spoke in France again without coughing.

The once-clear haze began to blur further into confusion.

As the weather grew colder and the beach lost its appeal, my friends started leaving. The Spaniards went first, then the Canadian, followed by the Russian-Italian. My affordable summer room had to be handed back to the fall student I had sublet it from.

Then the strikes began. First, the winegrowers protested against land taxes. Next, the metro workers went on strike for weeks to fight for their rights. The strikes brought chaos and drew attention to various causes, but they usually ended without any meaningful results.

To improve her French, my roommate signed up for a real university in the fall and invited me to join. But I couldn’t stomach the idea of being a college student again, living in a dorm at the age of 29. (It’s only now, of course, that I realize 29 is still quite young.)

I grew frustrated with never fully understanding anyone, only catching bits and pieces of the conversation. I hated wasting money on tickets for the wrong days and having packages sent to the wrong places. I was especially annoyed that I couldn’t have a real conversation with Julien.

It was nearly impossible to shout “fgwquambwazzee!” while I was coughing.

At one point, I realized I used to be much funnier back in New York. I just didn’t get French humor. I didn’t understand why movies never seemed to have a real ending, instead leaving you vaguely unsatisfied. I also couldn’t understand the constant anger toward the government.

Then, my coworker Charles started his own little revolution in our shop. He and my British boss would argue loudly over shift changes until one day he stormed off, and just like that, I lost him too.

But I still had that return ticket waiting for me.

Just a tourist once again.

In late September, I left Montpellier and boarded the TGV to Paris, where I would stay with my aunt for a few weeks before my flight home. As the train sped north, I gazed out at the vineyards rushing by, their grapes hanging low, waiting to be harvested and pressed.

Every morning in the city, my dear aunt prepared me a bowl of café au lait and a slice of bread with pâté. She handed me a small booklet called 'Balades à Paris' and sent me out to explore. I climbed the bright hill of Montmartre, uncovered Notre Dame’s secrets with the help of a volunteer guide, and bought a classic leather Cassandra bag at the Marche aux puces.

My mom and brother joined me for the last two weeks of my stay, and together we marveled at the marble statues in the Musée d'Orsay. We indulged in thick chocolate at Angelina café and took a road trip to visit the castles of the Loire Valley.

As my return flight loomed closer, I found myself dreading the thought of job hunting in New York and starting over again. Moving to France hadn’t been as tough as I expected, but building a new life there had proven challenging. That’s the real work no matter where you choose to live or try to settle.

I came to realize too late that you don’t truly learn a language. It simply pulls you along until one day, you find yourself standing there, able to speak it.

For a brief moment, I was that girl, swept up in the romance of dating a French guy and living out the French fantasy. But in the end, I became just another American in Paris, and a return ticket eventually brought me back home.