Gerard et Sybille

I'm officially moved into my new home in Boulogne, the first suburb outside Paris. I arrived this morning in time for lunch with Gerard Marty, his wife Sybille de la Forcade, and their 24 year old daughter Hortense. The new and different just keep on comin'.

Boulogne is not a small town, per se, but it seems to be one that families from Paris choose to move to when they decide to settle down with their children, not wanting to raise the little babes in a city. There are children everywhere. Children and teenagers. I arrived via taxi outside a gated-in garden, and up I went to the second floor apartment where Sybille was waiting for me.

Sybille can't be taller than 5'2". The same goes for Gerard. I am taller than both of my host parents by A LOT. The apartment... well, it's bizarre. It's very oddly decorated, but it gives it a sense of character, like the photos and paintings and posters on the walls tell a story behind this couple's life together. There's a terrace just outside that is absolutely covered with plants and flowers. I mean, COVERED. Lucky for me, the terrace extends to my bedroom, so I get a nice breeze and breathing room. My room is quaint - yellow with a floral wardrobe, a white desk, and a blue bed. Sybille was nice enough to put all of her fashion and art history books in my bedroom since she was told that those are two things I'm into. Needless to say, this is a very accommodating family.

I began my day with the Marty-de la Forcade family spending most of my time talking to Hortense, a spitfire of a young woman who was just dropping by to pick up some things for her apartment in Paris. Gerard came home about an hour after Hortense, Sybille, and I had got to talking. Four words: He is the shit. First of all, he's tiny; second of all, he's funny; third of all, he's weird as hell, and the ladies spend a lot of time yelling at him (all in good humor, of course) for being strange; fourth of all, he is always trying to speak to me in English, but I can't tell if that's because he wants to make me feel more comfortable, or he thinks I'm THAT bad at the language; and finally, he appreciates that I don't put sugar in my espresso.

After lunch - an entire cooked tomato stuffed with a mysterious meatball - I took a walk around Boulogne to try to get my bearings. I asked Sybille before I left if a walk was alright with her, and she graciously informed me by hand-demonstration that men around here are prone to flashing women. Well, then.

I found the Metro, found the main street, bought un coca-light, and finally had a moment to myself. I feel like I haven't been alone all week, and to finally be able to sit on a bench, smoke a cigarette, drink a soda, and just think and absorb this new environment was so pleasing to me. I'm so over-stimulated by transition right now that my mind feels like it has turned to mush. I look forward to the moment where the newness of everything has calmed and I feel at peace. Here's hoping that that ever happens before these few months are up.

I'm so glad to know that my host family is just plain nice, above and beyond all things. Sybille and I went grocery shopping for dinner together, and she explained her one-year working relationship with Karl Lagerfeld to me. When I asked if he was a nice man, she stopped to think and only said, "Il est intelligent." I just smiled and laughed.

It may take some time to feel at home here, but I really am lucky to have this family. Any sense of discomfort is due to the mere strangeness of accepting this as my environment, and it is something that I am solely responsible for. I can do it. Countless run-ins with the language barrier may occur, but I can do it.