Personal Narrative-Avez-Vous Faim

As I stepped off the charter bus and paced towards the Victorian house, my burgeoning apprehension reached its climax. The preceding days had been a mess; I spent hours on the plane skittishly pondering about how the experience would go. I was only to stay in Vichy for a week, but with every mile traversed, my comforts became further and further away.

The chic, glistening ornaments on the white manor stared at my anxious state as I opened the front door. I was immediately greeted by five promising smiles in the foyer, so I diffidently returned a typical French salutation: two soft kisses on both cheeks. To my surprise, dinner was already on the table; it featured meticulously crafted plates of escargot peppered with strips of garlic.

The elder man, who was to be my host father for the week, was the first to speak. “Comment était votre vol? Avez-vous faim?” At that moment, my trepidation erased, and I my emotions immediately shifted into complete despair. My concerns about the trip comprised of fears of culture shock, of leaving family, of leaving friends, but never of pure loneliness. I had taken French for four years, but as soon as my host father spoke, I realized I had let my egotism encapsulate me. For months I
Each daytime saw me perched on my wooden bed for hours, staring through the window at the towering green mountains in the distance. Each evening saw me sitting on a stiff wooden stool reluctantly consuming exotic food and drinks. My host family’s disappointment in my speaking skills persisted, and the only sounds in the house that my ears received were rapid, uninterpretable babbles. The only communication that occurred were measly gestures from my host mother to summon me to dinner and sheepish nods from my host father that dismissed me from dinner. The house that I was immured in was seemingly luxurious, but to me, it was a cage of solitude thousands of miles away from my