SN staffer encounters European life during winter break trip

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Tweet I find myself standing in a Polish airport, nervously clutching my American passport, afraid to let it go.

I can't speak a single word of Polish — all I can do is wait for the familiar face of my friend, Magda, to appear.

Magda, an international student at MSU, had planned to meet me at the airport and show off her homeland during winter break.

But she's not here.

I'm trying not to think about what will happen if she doesn't come to retrieve me.

Maybe I'll dramatically march off to the U.S. Embassy.

Maybe I'll come back to America boasting a grand story of how I spent my New Year's stranded in a foreign country, wandering the streets without any money or a place to stay.

Maybe this whole Poland idea was a mistake.

As I stand alone, I think about the whirlwind of events that have taken place during the last 10 days.

My family and I had been traveling around France while visiting my father, who lives in the northern part of the country.

As soon as I crossed into the land of baguettes and wine, I transformed from a 21-year-old American into a very polite French toddler. The only words I could say were "please," "thank you" and "hello."

I felt helpless with my limited vocabulary, unsure of myself in a place where I knew I did not belong because I could barely communicate.

I began to notice the differences that separated the French from Americans.

For instance, grocery shopping couldn't be any more different.

Instead of shopping at a run-of-the-mill American grocery store, people crowded at the outdoor market in the small, quiet French town of Ferney-Voltaire.

For their lavish, multicourse Christmas dinners, they weaved from vendor to vendor in the brisk December air. I saw men selling chickens with their heads and feathers still attached. I saw stands with countless numbers of cheeses in all shapes and sizes. I saw one man scooping steaming spiced wine to customers while another handed out freshly roasted chestnuts.

I had never seen anything like it.

It seemed so much more alive than my late-night trips to Meijer to grab a carton of milk.

Even the littlest things — like flushing the toilet or opening the window shade — seemed strange.

The cultural differences were striking.

I was shocked to see the French toting around their favorite accessory — their dogs — in upscale restaurants or in the busy hub of a train station. In France, it was acceptable to bring pets practically anywhere. The furry face of a little Scottish terrier or cocker spaniel was a welcomed guest.

These were some of the details that lingered as I spent winter break shadowing my parents, just in case I needed to whisk out something more complex from my vocabulary than "merci."

After 10 days, I needed a break from the folks. Random facts from a French tour book sounded monotonous coming from my mother's mouth.

Magda's offer of New Year's in Poland sounded so tempting that I booked a flight without hesitation.

And that's how I ended up here, in a Polish airport, where my "bonjour" is replaced with a blank stare. I don't even know how to say hello.

Then I see her.

Magda smiles and races to give me a hug.

I am saved.

Gabrielle Russon can be reached at russonga@msu.edu.

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