It is sometimes easy to forget that these are still early days.
Early days of our marriage. Early days of living in Europe. Early days of adopting to a totally new culture and language. It is easy to become frustrated with the things that were so easy to do a few months ago in our home country - like calling to make an appointment for a doctor, or picking up a ginormous bottle of Advil from the 24-hour CVS around the corner, or telling the cable company that our cable box keeps turning itself inexplicably (and demonically) on and off, or expecting to be able to open a bank account without multiple in-person meetings where we sign reams of paper. Here, everything appears similar enough to be normal; but in reality, things are deceptively, and dramatically different. For example, over the past few months, both Michael and I have experienced our fair share of doctor visits. Some of it is just the normal cycle of developing a winter/spring cold, or continuing to deal with my eye issue, or encountering new allergens and pollution that come with moving to a new city. But the very last thing you want to deal with in a new country is not feeling well. It's easy enough to get a referral to an English-speaking doctor, but there is no guarantee that his/her receptionist speaks English (they usually don't), or that you can figure out how to get into the building once you find the address (turns out, you push the golden button and the door magically unlocks during business hours). And the trips to the pharmacy with our long list of medicaments requires us to visit a new pharmacy every few days so as not to feel like the local American invalids. I had an appointment with an allergist earlier today. When I arrived at the reception desk, I realized that I had forgotten how to spell my name in French. Yep, that actually happened. I know that these things will get easier, and keep reminding myself that we've really only been here a few short months. But sometimes, I really want to be at the point where the little things become little things again. These past few weeks have also led me to remember the moment when I learned the Italian word for "foreigner" - straniero - and how I felt so offended at the time for being judged as "strange" just because I was from another country. But today, I completely understand what they mean - strange just really means different, which is true in so many big and little ways.
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AuthorBecause why not get married and move to Paris to really kick off your thirties? Archives
December 2016
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