When I was in college, my World Lit professor hated me. I’m not exaggerating. Another student said to me once, “Why does Dr. Lehner hate you?” I’m actually not sure. I was a good enough student. Maybe Probably it’s because I was frequently late to class. And Cliff Notes once fell out of my bag.

Dr. Lehner didn’t call me by name. On the first day, he dubbed me “The French Girl.” My maiden name is Poythress, which is French, but that’s about as French as I got. I wasn’t chic. I didn’t smoke. And my accent was distinctly Illinois nasal twang.

To him, however, I was the “French Girl.” He’d say, “Let’s see what The French Girl thinks about this passage” or “Oh, look. The French Girl has graced us with her presence,” usually with an eye roll and sense of disdain.

Side Note: Because I love a good rabbit hole, I Googled Dr. Francis Lehner to see if I could learn more about him. He specialized in 17th and 18th Century British Literature and Literary Criticism (heavy on the criticism), and he published poems, including this one in the South Dakota Review.

Ninety years have flailed my mountain father.
Wind and hail, rain and snow have damped belly’s fire, heart’s flame.
Volcano spirit that exploded lava now barely glows.
Embers from those ashes falling on my fuel of thought flare to word burn to poem.

See, I told you he was an intense guy!!

Anyway, I survived his class and was happy to rid myself of him and his nickname until last year when I went to Paris for the first time and fell in love with the city. I only stayed a few days, but on my way home I vowed to return. Maybe Dr. Lehner was onto something? Maybe deep down inside I am The French Girl? In March, I made good on that promise to myself and spent an entire month in the City of Lights.

To be honest, the experience wasn’t what I expected. Before I left, I created a romanticized vision of what I thought it would be like to live in Paris. It would be all “ooh-la-la,” “bonjour,” “Merci,” and “enchanté.” I would be a free spirit, captivated with a creative lifestyle, working in a café and becoming friends with a handsome waiter. Maybe he’d even recognize my inner French Girl.

Yeah. That didn’t happen. While that experience would have been amazing, it would have been just that. An experience. Something I would have left behind. Instead, something better unfolded—I gained a deeper understanding of myself and what I really want in life.

Here’s what I brought home with me.

A renewed appreciation for where I live. Paris is a big city, and, in my experience, its people aren’t exactly what you’d call friendly. I’m used to my small town, where people wave and greet each other. And they smile. In Paris, few people returned my eye contact, and only one person smiled back. It could have been a sneer. I’m not sure. Many times, couples walking towards me on the narrow sidewalks would not move to make room for me to pass. It was like playing chicken, and I was always the chicken.

A desire for connection. I didn’t learn enough of the language to be able to engage with others in Paris. That’s on me. Most Parisians, especially those in the service industry, speak some English, but the conversations were transactional. I missed the small talk that humanizes people. I didn’t realize how much I craved it until I went to London for a few days and could finally communicate. It fueled me, and I found myself talking to strangers, asking questions, and sharing stories.

Refined taste buds. Oh, but the food. I’ll take French cuisine over hot chicken and a meat-and-three restaurant every day of the week. I expanded my palette with escargot, coq au vin, beef bourguignon, and so many pastries. Oh, and hot chocolate. It’s a must in France! The food is amazing and amazingly priced. A baguette is one and a half Euros. That’s $1.70. And it’s made fresh that day in a real bakery. Oh, and the butter … IYKYK. I put big pats of it on everything. And don’t get me started on croissants. I even took a croissant making class and learned that the fat content in the butter is the reason why they’re the best in the world. That does deserve a big fat ooh-la-la!

A deep admiration of beauty and detail. You can’t visit Paris and not be overcome by the sheer beauty of the architecture. There are flowers everywhere. And. So. Many. Statutes. The buildings are lessons in design. Getting lost is the best thing that can happen because you find even more beauty and detail. I tend to stick to streamlined and plain when it comes to décor and fashion. In Paris I discovered that I love scarves. Who knew? I came home with four.

A sense of history. When you return from a trip to Europe, you realize how young America really is. In Paris, the buildings have withstood centuries. I attended the ballet marveled at the building, which inspired “The Phantom of the Opera.” The ceiling was painted by Chegal. The chairs were made of carved wood, and each one had a word on the back. Mine said “Love.” Sigh. Nick spent a week with me, and we visited Notre Dame, Versailles, the Louvre, the Catacombs, and Montmartre. At each place, the building itself was as beautiful as the furnishings and art it contained.

A sense of curiosity. I found myself wondering a lot. For example, why don’t people move over for you on the sidewalk? Why do they seem pissed off? Why do the French talk with so much emotion in their voice? What would happen if I started talking like that at home? Who kept saying, “We need more statues”? Does France have a Surgeon General? Is the ballet dancer on the left the French Olympic pole vaulter?

So, maybe Dr. Lehner didn’t hate me after all. Maybe by calling me The French Girl, he planted a seed he hoped I’d someday water, blossoming into something more than a girl who was more focused on Greek Life than Greek mythology?

Nah … he hated me. But I think I got the last laugh.

PS: What do you think of my new website? I decided to combine my writer site with my blog, which is why I’ve been MIA for a bit. My designer even created a V logo for me inspired by the Eiffel Tower. Take that, Dr. Lehner!!