Unlike Americans, the French are known for their candor, which they call franchise.  Ask a friend what she thinks of your new haircut and she won't think twice about telling you it's too short and you looked much better before.  Stand in line at the post office and the 60-year-old woman carrying a mewling kitty in her purse will groan theatrically about how long the lines are – "It's not possible!"  And a Frenchman will tell you after ten minutes of acquaintance that you are beautiful and he is in love (and expect you to believe him because you are a "puritanical" American).  Given this tendency for bluntness, it should perhaps have come as no surprise that, after waiting half an hour for my Paris-bound flight to take off from Newark, the Air France captain announced that the crew was experiencing mechanical difficulties with the aircraft – rather than offering a more benign-sounding explanation, so as to prevent alarm.

As I looked around, panicked, I seemed to be the only one concerned.  The other New Yorkers were merely irritated that we would be late, and the French passengers carried on reading their newspapers, seeming not even to notice.  At least, perhaps they were thinking, the crew had not decided on a last- minute strike.  In a country of 35-hour work weeks and six weeks of vacation per year, the spirit of Revolution has never died down.  Anything seems a valid reason to put down the punch card and take up the picket posters.  At least today we would get off the ground, sooner or later, so there was no reason to become upset.

I wasn't particularly worried about getting off the ground, but rather that we would too soon come crashing down to meet it.  Images of a scorching death flashed through my head.  I was about to embark on the newest adventure of my life, the one when I would move away from home and try to make something of myself in Paris.  Now, I was encaged in a stuffy metal monster that was experiencing technical difficulties.  What if I died before I even touched French soil?   I wouldn't even have a hand to hold as the metal beast screamed blazing to the ground.  In my final, terrifying hour, I would be completely alone.

As I sat, buckling and unbuckling my seatbelt and imagining the newspaper headlines of the tragic crash, the flight attendants circulated with cups of water carried on cafeteria trays.  A few minutes later, they wheeled the meal carts down the aisles, handing out soda and peanuts.  The crew smiled the sterile wide grins they had certainly learned in airline school, and pushed the carts down the aisles as if nothing extraordinary were happening.  When they came to my row, I requested a bottle of wine.  The French would be brutally honest about the plane's mechanical troubles, and the flight attendants sparse with words when you asked for reassurance that the problem was not grave; but at least they would be humane enough to ply you with wine so you could be happy in your last moments, even in coach class.

When the engine came back on and the crew signed the directions for an emergency evacuation, I searched the flight attendant's face to perceive any indication revealing imminent disaster.  Her expression remained tight; I was not sure if it was because she was worried, or because the French are with their smiles the way Americans are with their money – squandering is deemed imprudent.  By the time the plane lifted off, I had finished my bottle of wine, and my head was swimming pleasantly.  If we had to make an emergency landing, I might not be able to save myself, but at least the terror would be dulled.  I closed my eyes as the plane rattled and lunged, dipping when it hit pockets of turbulence, and tried to sleep.

We arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport – unscathed, as my seatmate had promised – some seven hours later.  The customs officers barely smiled as they glanced at my passport.  As soon as we entered the baggage claim area, a French passenger lit up, ignoring the posters and a loudspeaker announcement stating the interdiction to smoke.  The Parisian drew long puffs on her cigarette, unfazed.  After spending eight hours in a plane, she needed a fix; no federal law was going to prevent her from exercising her freedom.

In the parking lot, the cars seemed bigger than I remembered.  The people we passed on the street didn't seem as perfect as the image – distorted with time – etched in my mind.  Rather than the excitement of a new place, I was instead wracked with the worries of someone facing the struggles of a life to be made.  No longer was I the starry-eyed student of four years earlier, when I had fallen in love with Paris and everything French.  As we rolled along the periphery, it seemed like any other highway – too much traffic, and scenery marred by industrial implantations.  There was graffiti on the overpasses, just like at home.  The radio announcers had the same self-indulgent tone of announcers in the U.S.  The only difference was that here, the waves emitted from the radio came out in French.

Our first stop after dropping off my suitcase at my friends' apartment was the Carrefour hypermarket, which was just like any American mega food store.  Fluorescent bulbs lit aisles that stretched as far as the eye could see.  Their brightness irritated my jet-lagged eyes.  The sheer quantity of items was overwhelming – 40 kinds of marmalade, ten feet of ham varieties, and three shelves packed with tea, all at a bargain price.  This was a far cry from the quaint Paris life I had so coveted, where people take the time to go from shop to shop – boucherie, boulangerie, pattiserie, fruiterie – to do the day's shopping.  I felt trapped in an American nightmare with a French accent.  Even the people looked taller than I had remembered, and now they wore sweat suits instead of urban Paris chic.

As I stood preparing bags while the checkout lady – as snippy as any American cashier – rang up our purchases, a jolt of sadness overcame me.  Maybe I had invented everything during my year as a student.  Perhaps Paris was not the place of my dreams, after all.  The sheer everydayness of the supermarket created an ache in my chest, which deepened when I realized I didn't even have an everyday life here.  Everything I knew was at home, in New York.  In my mind I saw the faces of my friends and family, felt the comfort of home when I closed my eyes.  Now, I was alone, in this big supermarket that seemed like a bad copy of home, while everything I thought I loved about this country seemed to be disappearing.  I picked up one of the boxes of food and read the label.  Four years before, the novelty of the French words would have thrilled me.  Now, the box seemed banal, and I noticed only the ridiculous face of the girl on the cover, her smile too large, her teeth too straight.  I read the back panel through teary eyes as I wondered:  had I made a huge mistake?

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