Last week Kristin’s cousin Amanda shined her sweet South Dacota smile on the two of us, the Belgian, and the Spaniard while she opened up her suitcase, filled with American autumn harvesty foods. Cans of cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie makings spilled out onto Kristin’s linoleum floor. As we munched away dreamily on her grandmother’s chocolate peanut butter balls, we explained in slow, deliberate French just how important it is to eat a pie made of pumpkin at this time of year. They weren’t sure about this whole pumpkin (or as Carlota pronounces it, ponking) as a desert idea but they were sold on the chocolate peanut butter balls, even though they turn their noses up at peanut butter.

Amanda brought more with her than food, though. She brought this little piece of the US that comes with a confident voice and a wide grin. Carlota and Cyril tried to speak broken English with her and when Kristin and I weren’t there to translate, they got by on gestures, grunts, onomatopoeia, and lots of giggling. Walking back from Saint Cricq (the high school) I heard voices and looked up to Cyril’s window where peals of laughter came tumbling down into the courtyard along with some scattered collection of piano notes somewhat resembling “Heart and Soul.” I climbed the stairs to catch them there, playing together and teaching each other what they could about their own cultures with what limited language they had. Little glimpses of playing that song in grade school danced around me, then, mixing with my current experiences in France. I tried to make some sense of it but couldn’t. That must explain the strange empty feelings that come and go when I wake up in the morning and stare across the valley at this place so similar to home in ways and so completely French in others.

Yesterday morning the sun peeked up over a foggy valley and lit the Pyrenees pink and orange, opening up a perfectly cloudless late fall day. We all went to the train station together to see Amanda off to Paris and, watching the sun and wind toss around her blonde hair, I though “a week just isn’t enough.” With a week you see the dog poop in the street and you smell the stinky cheese factories and you just can’t quite understand why they’d sell stomach and brain in the outdoor market. People seem rude and the metro seems dirty and over used. A week is about enough time to begin to adjust and get over the jet lag. Kristin, I know, felt the same way – it didn’t seem like a fair look at the life we so love struggling for over here. I hoped she had gotten something good out of it.

Fooling around on the platform waiting for the train, we tried line dancing and singing the Spongebob theme song. We drew attention but we didn’t care. Kristin hugged her cousin and then tugged on her pocket, looking at her and saying “C’est quoi dans ta poche?” Amanda stared at her blankly. She continued, then, with “Viens ici, fais voir ce que tu as.” I couldn’t help bursting out laughing. “Kristin.” I said, “She speaks English, remember?” I turned to Amanda “She wants to know what’s in your pocket,” I said, “Geez, Kristin, I have to translate for you, now?” All of this translating and confusing French with English was good for us, and a sign that we were getting comfortable in the language. It made me think about how we must sound to the French when we speak. I came here to get a closer look at another language and culture and, with this little American presence beside us for a week, I found out that I was taking a look at my own culture just as closely. There are things about yourself that come popping out when you try to explain to European friends that CocaCola is not your favorite drink, you don’t actually eat at McDonalds at all, and the day after Thanksgiving may be a gigantic shopping day back home, but people really do appreciate being with their families like they do here, not just consuming. You see your own personality separating itself from your culture when someone comes, fresh from home, and you see how you were months ago compared to the way you are now.

It was good to meet Amanda, for sure, and when she left on Thanksgiving Kristin and I felt a little hollow for lack of turkey and family. We ravenously devoured most of the chocolate peanut butter balls she was so kind to bring with her, and found that though they might be bite sized pieces of utopia, they only last a minute or two, and they just can’t tie together the love of home with the love of France. Carlota could feel our waves of homesickness and, wagging her pointer finger in the air, she said “I have an idea, let’s go get our own food tonight and eat in the room. We’ll get some wine, we’ll play some music, it’ll be just like a little party.” That girl is so smart. Cyril loaned us his keys so that we could use his microwave, we pulled a table in from the hall, and set everything up. Three foreign girls coming together over Italian food managed to understand each other somewhat profoundly in French. While you can’t really explain why pumpkin pie is so important in the fall, other things translate easily. Men, travel, future wishes for employment and happiness and telling tales of silly situations brought the Spanish and the Americans closer for a night. That, and the American concept of “giving thanks.” We left some cake for Cyril in his fridge, with a note that read “On est ‘thankful’ de toi – les filles,” (we are thankful for you – the girls). So lasagna, cake, and a bottle of wine later and we, the three language assistants of Saint Cricq, were planning our next trip to Morocco. And I am so thankful. How’s that to melt away the longing?