Its only good to be American when. . .

. . . your in a room with the English and French.

Several people have explained to me that the English and French dislike one-another.  The french dislike the English even more than Americans! (really shocking huh?) So in a room of just English and French, everyone likes me best.
Of course there is a long history for why this may be and I will not pretend to understand the historical, political and cultural contexts at play.  I can observe, however, that upon stepping foot onto french soil there was an obvious and dramatic difference just on a surface level.  

But lets back up to my first night in Bristol where I met David from the French Alps.  Wiry, small, wild hair, intense eyes, prominent nose, sparsely grown out facial hair, sandals and a wrinkled shirt slightly unbuttoned. (he would blend right in if he were in Santa Cruz)  He says what he thinks, likes pushing buttons, has a devious smile and definitely stands out from the English men. His movements are loose and fluid rather than statuesque. Yet he too is alluring in a different way.  It was the first and only night we hung out in Bristol sipping award-winning cider at room temperature in a pub called the Corinthian Tap (costing only about $3 a glass!)  He was heading back to France the next morning.  The pub was small and sunken into the ground.  It was all wooden and warm and therefore everything was in a sepia tone.  We talked about cheese in French while a jazz band played loudly in the corner.  All of Seico's friends were very nice.  But I didn't realize that I would be seeing David again.  

David was my first symbol of France before I set foot on their soil.  I hadn't met one person yet from France.  He stood in stark juxtapostition to the English.  Seico even explained to me that he reinforced the french stereotypes for their classmates, irritating but amusing.  Rumor has it, he received a poor lab grade simply because he refused to wear closed toed shoes.  While I enjoyed observing the British like a dramatic foreign film- I was ready for the rebellious and raw reality of the french. 

The soil in Bristol was clay; heavy and slippery. The banks of the river Avon glisten like freshly thrown pottery on a wet wheel. I longed to put my hands in it.  But I was on the road (err in the air) again.   I cried to myself upon leaving Seico, a little bit of intimacy among strangers, a little bit of home in a far away land.  It was interesting sharing in the town of Bristol with Seico knowing that she too was leaving just a few days after me. Knowing it will never be the same for her or for me.  Perhaps we will never return. All of this a distinct little package of time with its own feeling; its own weight and shape. Like a present neatly wrapped in shiny paper and elegant bows- once opened it is never as it was. A surprise found out.
 

Bon Voyage Seico!!!