Fog

They use a verb here often that has the sense of "unfogging" your way. Last weekend, when I went to Orleans for the day, my host parents asked if I was sure I wanted to go alone. You want to te debrouiller alone? Yes, I said. You'll figure it all out, I told myself.

However, living in a foreign country is a constantly humbling experience. 

Like when I have my driving lesson with M, the father of my host family, and he's yelling "brake, brake, brake!" and I think to myself you got this, and I slow down nicely. And then stall out.  M told me that every time you stall out you owe your passengers a glass. After that first outing on the narrow country roads: "I counted," he said, "You owe me seven glasses."  

Like when I can’t find the correct grammar to communicate what I want to say, and stumble over my words.  Good lord, I’m so glad I can’t hear what I sound like to French speakers! Trying not to mix up the words for “turn” and “virgin,” for “poaching” and “crafting,” and for “raining” or “crying” – I am infinitely thankful that my host family and the friendly inhabitants of Chaon are always willing to explain things slowly and clearly for me.

Like when I fix a quiche for dinner, saying to myself, this is French food – they’ll love it, and none of the kids touch it and we have a meltdown-at-table crisis.

I’m learning to accept that no matter what, even if I use perfect grammar and fix real French food, I’m always going to have my American accent that marks me instantly as a foreigner and makes the kids giggle.

There are obviously plenty of ways that I haven't successfully me debrouillée. But that won't stop me from trying.