For five days, Troyes had sun and even a little heat. Then, yesterday, it started to rain, and it’s been off and on ever since.
In 48 hours, I will be in the middle of my trans-Atlantic flight back to the US. Sometimes in Morocco, to pass the time, Ryan and I talked about what we would do first when we got back to Portland. About a month ago, we decided that we are going to Chipotle first. Now, we’re so close to being there I can almost taste the burrito.
This week in Troyes has been a worthwhile experience. This place is the buffer between Morocco and the US. The past week has given me a chance to process the entire trip outside the context of Morocco itself, but without the constant bombard of questions that I know is waiting for when I come back.
So far, this processing has consisted in a lot of comparisons. For instance, while we were in Paris, Ryan and I walked through a street market, similar to the Saturday Market in Portland. A row of tents had been set up, and people were selling fish, vegetables, chickens, wine, oil, souvenirs, etc. out of them while Parisians walked through, getting their shopping done. As Ryan and I passed through on our way to the river front, we were both struck by how calm it felt. After the markets of Fez, where getting from one stall to the next was a struggle through a large swarming crowd broken up by a donkey carrying leather on its back while a man ran behind it yelling “Andek,” Paris seemed extraordinarily tame.
Another difference: what we’ve been eating. Food is more expensive here, and it’s hard to justify eating a traditional French meal when it costs 16 euros, so our diet has consisted mostly of kebab sandwiches for 5 euros. When we’ve really wanted to splurge, we get a pizza for 10. It makes me miss dinners with Halima, or the lunches at INLAC.
It’s also been strange switching away from communal meals. I can probably count on my hand the amount of times a plate was brought directly to me in Morocco– the rest of the time, the meal came in a large, central dish that everyone ate out of.
Language is another difference that comes up around meals. For some reason, when deciding to come to Troyes, Ryan and I did not factor in the fact that we do not know French. English, as it turns out, is not that common here, nor is Arabic. In Morocco, it was obvious that we were not Moroccan, but we surprised everyone we met with out knowledge of Arabic, always in a positive way (leaving the country, I had a conversation, in Arabic, with the customs officer about how I enjoyed my stay in Morocco). In France, I mostly point to what I want, or read it off the menu while trying to make it sound French. The longest we’ve gone before a local switches to English is twenty minutes at a pizza restaurant. This happens even if the waiter knows as little English as we know French.
Huge difference: alcohol. Morocco is a predominantly Muslim country, and most Moroccans have never consumed alcohol. Mourad was against drinking entirely. In some restaurants that are geared towards tourists, alcohol is served, and a few supermarkets will have a specific “alcohol cave” with its own entrance and exit. In France, alcohol is so common that day-drinking is normal– Christine, our host, told us that it’s only strange to drink hard alcohol before 8 pm, but people will just think you’re having a bad day.
There are little differences too. I now wait longer to cross the street. In Morocco, the key to crossing the street is to go halfway. It took me a few days to remember that when I do this in France, the drivers stop and impatiently wave for me to finish crossing.
In Troyes, smashing our expectations, we’ve also had a chance to meet people. Through Christine, we met Cecile, an English teacher at the local university. Through Cecile, we met Matilde and Fleur, two of her former students, Benoit, a math teacher at the same university, Dan, Lauren, Natalie, Sonita, Tommy, Lucy, Mohammed, Jun, Emmeline, and others whom we met at a bar which has an English Speaking night. Many of these people live in Troyes, or are here working for a year. They all had the same question for us: “Why the hell did you come to Troyes?” I couldn’t answer beyond, “It’s quiet here.”
Our time here is spent between two areas– the main town of Troyes, and the area where Christine’s apartment is. The difference between the two is about a 25 minute walk. There is a bus line, but during the days of sun we got used to the walk, and decided the exercise would feel better. Today, we spent the afternoon in the town center, walking to different cafes for a coffee or beer. We even walked along the Seine for a bit. As we started back, it was drizzling a little, barely enough for us to notice. Then, just as we reached the point of no return, it started to pour. Within five minutes, we were drenched. We could even here thunder in the distance, and we still had 10 more minutes.
“This is gonna suck,” Ryan said.
“It’s like we’re back in Portland,” I said, cheerfully.
“It would still suck in Portland.”
We couldn’t help laughing as we walked, our clothes starting to stick to our skin. Even the car that doused us as it drove through a puddled made us giggle. To me, it was just the image we must have been– everyone else we saw had umbrellas, or was in their car. Meanwhile, we were two men beginning to resemble drowned rats, grinning like idiots. All I could think was, “Why the hell did we come to Troyes?”
When we got back to the apartment, Christine gave us both a beer to lift our spirits from the rain. I was extremely grateful, but I couldn’t help thinking that mint tea would warm us up better.