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		Anna Wiencis AS’92 I thought I understood the French people and the way they felt about Americans. Last summer, I was standing across the street from the original Grey Poupon store in downtown Dijon watching a parade. I’d read in Le Bien Public that a folklore festival would be taking place that weekend. Music and dance groups from all over the world were scheduled to perform. I was excited to see that an Army marching band would represent the United States. I’d been living in France for almost a year and was homesick. My husband and I watched the entire parade but never saw the Americans. While we were wondering why, I noticed a woman in the crowd glancing at us. She was well dressed and well groomed, what the French would call bourgeois. Finally she turned her perfectly coifed gray head toward us, “Vous-êtes américaine?” she asked me. Upon hearing my hesitant “Oui,” she began telling me how much she loves Americans. I was shocked and more than a little embarrassed as she repeated her thanks, as if I were personally responsible for saving France from the Nazis. I couldn’t understand everything she said, just enough to know she had lived through World War II. Later that afternoon, I noticed there was no American flag among all the other colorful flags that decorated the mairie, or town hall. How anti-American, I thought. I ranted and raved until my husband finally asked a parade official if the Americans were still participating in the festivities. He told us they had canceled. “Perhaps they were afraid of traveling so near September 11,” he sneered, referring to the upcoming anniversary. Two earlier visits to France had convinced me what I’d heard about its people and their scorn for Americans was based on stereotypes. So when my fiancé asked whether I would consider moving to France with him, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. Secretly, I rationalized that, with that country’s 9 percent unemployment rate, the move would probably never happen. I was wrong. Shortly after our wedding, my husband informed me he had been hired for a three-year position, due to start the following November. In retrospect, relocating to France in the late fall was not ideal timing. We arrived in Burgundy to weather I’d never experienced growing up in Boston. Not only did it rain every day, but a thick fog hung in the air—the kind you’d expect to find in a ghost story. I remember thinking, With all this rainfall, no wonder the region is known for its wine. We live in what could be described as France’s Midwest—though Dijon is technically in east central France—between the glamour of Paris and the peacefulness of Provence. We can drive thirty minutes south and be hiking along the Route des Grands Crus, the famed road running through Burgundy’s vineyards. On weekends, when the weather cooperates, we walk through acres of vineyards and picturesque stone villages I had previously encountered only in wine magazines. Villages with noble-sounding names like Nuits-St.-Georges, Gevrey-Chambertin, and Vosne-Romanée. This region produces some of the finest and most expensive wines in the world. Burgundy’s version of Indian summer often coincides with the late September vendange, the ritualistic grape picking. After each grape’s been carefully hand-harvested, the vines begin to dry and yellow. As a result, the entire countryside looks blanketed in gold. During our first month in France, we were introduced to another couple like ourselves: Tracey is American, and Jean-François is French. They invited us to their home to celebrate Thanksgiving. After dinner, Tracey offered me a job teaching English at the language school where she works. Though I have always feared public speaking and had been working as a research associate since graduating from Northeastern, I recognized a good opportunity and accepted the job. After all, Dijon is not exactly the biotech mecca that Boston is. From my interactions with the students, I learned even more about how the French perceive Americans. To some, we are a nation of fast food–eating, gun-wielding fatties. Yet I have observed that France has its fair share of fast food, crime, and weight problems. I was saddened to realize that the French were somehow able to export the image of themselves as Chanel-wearing, thin gourmets while we only export sneakers, McDonald’s, and bad big-budget action films. Living in France, I’ve learned firsthand about history, geography, international relations, and political science—subjects I tried to avoid while studying chemistry. But I often ask myself if all the challenges have been worth it: having to learn to communicate in a new language; the general loneliness of being far from friends, family, and all things safe and familiar. And perhaps most difficult of all: trying to understand the sometimes infuriating ways of a different culture. Would I do this all over again? Has finally being able to understand when someone speaks French been rewarding? Has discovering what another culture is truly like been satisfying? Has sitting through all those long five-course meals—while not always understanding the conversation around me—been useful? To these questions, I answer with no hesitation: Oui!