On my way to France, I decided to stop over in New York City for a few days. My friend Courtney came with me, and we had a great time seeing the city together. When we were at Ellis Island, we made all kinds of immigrant jokes. They were mostly about the fact that as tourists we felt like immigrants when we were on the Ferry to get to the Island, being herded like cattle, being inspected thoroughly, etc. When I made my way to France a few days later, however, I really did get the full-on immigrant experience. There was a lot of paperwork, and I even had to go for a medical exam (more on that later). First, I had to actually get to France, carrying what would be for the next eight months all my worldly possessions.
I left New York on a Tuesday night around 10:30 pm New York time, and I arrived at Heathrow on Wednesday at about 10:30 am London time. Ever since the unfortunately incident with an epic wind storm when my plane was landing in London for my first study abroad experience, flying has made me really nervous and I am entirely unable to sleep on a plane. I was already pretty exhausted when I got off the plane, but I wasn't even close to being where I needed to be. After immigration and baggage collection (hooray-- 100 pounds to drag behind me) I had to take a bus to London, switch buses, and then take a bus to Dover.
When I arrived at the ferry terminal to book a boat to Calais, I found out there wouldn't be another one for a couple of hours. I was completely alone with my giant bags in what was basically a huge waiting room, and felt very acutely like an itinerant. After getting on and off a bus a few times between the waiting area, security check, and actual terminal (with my bags of course), I got on a ferry from Dover to Calais. I watched the channel slosh by for an hour or so, just happy to sit down. When we arrived I shared a cab with a nice English gentleman to the train station, only to find that no more trains to my destination that night. At that point I had been awake for about 30 hours and had been dragging 100 pounds of luggage through Europe for ten of those hours. I called my contact from the Lycée (high school) where I'd be working, and she advised me to just stay in Calais for the night. I really didn't want to do that, but as I didn't seem to have much choice I told her I would.
After I hung up with her, I panicked for a moment. The English gentleman was gone, and I really was all alone in France, and would have to take care of myself. I didn't think I could have dragged my bags any farther, and I had no notion of how to call a taxi or where I would tell it to take me. Fortunately for me, there was a hotel right across the road from the train station. I tested my French for the first time on the hotel receptionist, who answered me in English. After depositing my bags in the room, I went down the road in search of something to eat. As tired as I was, food would have to come first. I went in the first bar/brasserie I saw and ordered a croque monsieur (french ham and cheese sandwich) and fries. I was so tired and hungry that I fell in love with that meal, and now order it every time I return to France after a long journey.
The next day I took a train from Calais to Rang du Fliers, which is a town a couple of miles from Berck, where I'm living. My contact from the Lycée picked me up and took me to my apartment, where, after two flights of narrow spiral stairs, my bags finally came to rest. At Ellis Island, the main processing room was on the second floor, so everyone had to carry all of their things up a flight of stairs in order to go through the immigration procedures. I read a sign next to the top of the staircase that said doctors would watch everyone at the top of the stairs to see how they looked after dragging their heavy bags up stairs. They would observe how strained or short of breath they were, and that was the first medical check. I can now say from experience that it is probably as good a test as any. If you have the strength and endurance just to make it to a foreign country, you're probably in pretty good shape.
I had a bad case of "Why the Hell!"s while I was traveling and for a day or so after. Sample: "Why the HELL did I do this?!?!?" "Why the HELL did I think this would be a good idea?!?!" "Why the HELL did I want to move to the other effing side of the effing world?!?!" "Why the HELL did I pack so much!" (while traveling) and then "Why the HELL didn't I pack ___?" (after unpacking). Anyway, the "Why the Hell"s subsided after a couple of days, and I remembered that I felt the same way when I first arrived at Regent's in London. I think it always feels like that when you do something new and difficult and scary, but it gets better really quickly. I knew it was going to be hard when I set out, especially with my heavy bags, but I just had to remember my mantra: If I can move an inch, I can move two inches, and if I can move two inches, I can move 500 miles... it just might take me a really long time, but I can do it." And so I could.
By the time I arrived at my apartment in Berck, it was Thursday afternoon. I settled in, unpacked, and promptly came down with a sore throat, right on schedule. I was completely expecting to be sick as soon as I got here, of course, because that's just how it works. If you move to a new country, particularly if you drag all your worldly possessions behind you, you will get sick. I was better after a few days of peppermint tea and my favorite DVDs.
I'm sure the immigrant experience is a little different for everyone, but there are some things you can count on. Expect to be tired and hungry for long periods of time. Expect to be confused, disoriented, lost, and in most cases, unable to effectively communicate. Expect to immediately regret your decision to leave your home soil. Expect that feeling to go away within a day or two. Most of all, when you look back on the whole experience, expect that all the pains you took to get to your new home will have been worth it.
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