“sonder: (n.) the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own […]” — The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

“Je vais m’asseoir sur ton lit et je vais te lire une histoire¹,” Mila declared, struggling to get on top of the bed with her tiny legs. I lifted her up and handed her the book: Derri�re le Tracteur, with little cartoon birds following a tractor as it turns up fresh earth, full of grubs. She can’t read yet, but she made up stories anyway as she turned the pages, and I returned to unpacking my massive suitcase.

Here, I have a linguistic cycle– struggling against the language, loving it. Suffering under French, then liberated by it. It is in turns facile and difficult. In a way, I had packed my French away during the summer, like a winter jacket, and now it’s the correct season for me to bring it out and dust it off. (It is incredibly dusty.)

The first week was half-orientation, half-vacation. If I had a cobblestone for every step I’ve taken during our three different Montpellier tours, I could probably reconstruct half the streets of the city. The Meditteranean Sea lacked the murkiness of the Atlantic and was five times as salty. I have met people at the fountain called Les Trois Graces in the Place de la Comedie more times than I count– it’s the most important part of the city, a wide open space that somehow also seems to carry an incredible amount of weight and density.

It was our first full day in France, walking through the Place de la Comedie as a huge group of jetlagged Americans, when someone said something that struck me: These people spoke French before we showed up and will continue doing so after we leave. While blatantly obvious, I think the very physical and complete comprehension of this sentiment is the beginning of “global citizenship.” Of course, I believe that these people exist when I’m not around (I’m no solipsist), but there is a certain je ne sais quoi to the final, genuine comprehension of what that means and all of its implications.

In a way, this recognition is described by the imaginary word “sonder,” made up by The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. In France, I am a foreigner who briefly and poorly asked for coffee; that girl who totally tripped getting on to the tram; the back of a head that exited a classroom; or, to Milla, for instance, I will simply be an idea: “notre invit�e who stayed in our apartment when you were 3 years old,” and 13 year old Milla will put on her sunglasses and say, “Oh, I don’t really remember. I was so little then.”

In terms of intercultural understanding, thinking of oneself as a background character is actually quite liberating. I am unafraid to stop and ask for directions, speak halting French with the Monoprix cashier even though the line extends out the door, and tell the homeless man who tried to touch my face that he was crossing some serious boundaries and, very sternly, Bonne journ�e, Monsieur. In France, I am a footnote in the lives of others– as the defintion says, “a lit window at dusk.” And others are my lit windows, a kind smile and a finger pointing on my tram map, someone bumping elbows during classtime, my near-death experiences when trying to cross a road. (Seriously, driving in France is borderline suicidal.)

Being a background American also means I get to try every kind of cheese and not be embarrassed about not having had it before. It means I get to ask really, really stupid questions, like “This is embarrassing, but how does the toilet work?” (You have to pull the button upward instead of pressing it.) According to my two new friends Irina and Deborah (Lithuanian and non-descriptly francophone, respecively), being American is also somehow glamorous or cool. It also apparently means that I am constantly honked at, catcalled, hit on, and aggressively stared at by French men. It also means I get to do a few touristy things like go to the final “L’�stivale du Montpellier” wine tasting festival of the season, then dance as if no one’s watching.

Location: Montpellier, France