I don’t know if it was the pink Benadryl I took to knock myself out for the plane, the fact that I had been traveling for 15 or so hours, the 9-hour time difference, or my utter disbelief at what was actually happening, but when I arrived on Monday, January 14th in France, I was completely out of it. I am almost sure I walked around the whole day with a dazed smile on my face. I actually remember warning a few people I met that day that I’m normally more with it and more able to form complete thoughts and sentences.

A couple days later, I have defeated the evil forces of jet lag and started to come around to the fact that I am living in another country. There will be more on that later.

For now, I most want to talk about the last week’s prime people watching experiences. I’ve seen gyspy camps, hat-wearing old grandmas riding bicycles with baguettes as their basket’s cargo, hundreds of new logos and brands I’m unfamiliar with, and more scarves and pea coats than I knew existed.   Arriving in Angers — a city that predates the Romans — I cannot help but be the gawking tourist when I come across medieval, cobbled streets even when modern buildings lie on either side and no one else seems to care. I’ve walked the same streets a number of times after a week of being here and going to class, but I still can’t help but stare at all the old apartments and each of their uniquely ornate and colored doors.

My constant wide-eyedness almost surely marks me as someone not from here. What I am still trying to figure out, however, is how they already seem to know that not only am I not from here, but that I’m American. Even when I am wearing the apparently customary scarf and pea coat and haven’t even opened my mouth to mumble my high school French or speak English, it seems they can tell.

I have four months here. I know I’ll never be French, but I am going to try my very hardest to be something more than an American visiting France. How exactly I’ll do that, I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.