TAPIF blog 1: the journey before the journey

A random journal entry in my French comic book class set off a chain of events that would land me in a tiny wine-town in France with no clue what I was getting into. One day, in my weekly journal, I wrote about how much I missed living abroad and wanted to keep improving my French. Along with some direct feedback on my grammar, my professor suggested I look into TAPIF, the Teaching Assistant Program in France

The deadline was coming up fast, but I jumped in. The application involved essays, recommendations, transcripts, a background check, and proof of at least B1-level French. I applied in February, and by mid-May, after obsessively checking Reddit and spiraling about post-grad life, I found out I was accepted to teach in the Bordeaux region. 

As much as I was filled with relief when I was accepted to the program, it also let the “holy crap, I’m going to live in France,” emotions set in. While I knew roughly where I’d be living, knowing the region was the equivalent of being placed in the state of California. I still had no idea what city I would be living in, what school I would be teaching at, or if I would have to walk a mile to get to the nearest laundromat. 

It’s safe to say that as much as I was excited to be moving abroad, I was also having some real nerves about how little I knew about what it would entail.

In mid/end of June, I found out that I would be working in a tiny town outside of Bordeaux called Pauillac. It was deep in wine country and home to the world’s longest marathon. The Médoc marathon has 23 wine stops, 50 orchestras, as well as steak and oysters in the final two kilometers of the race, just in case the runners needed to test their iron stomachs. I felt a wave of relief pass over me when I realized I was placed in such a picturesque and unique town. 

About a month later, my point person at the school contacted me with a very generous offer. She was a teacher at the school where I would be working, and she extended an invitation to live with her, her husband, and her two young children for the duration of my stay. 

During my time abroad in Paris, I lived in a tiny studio alone in the 10th arrondissement. It was flooded with sunlight throughout the day, overlooked a tiny cobblestone courtyard with a wall shared between me and an opera singer. It was magical. I loved living alone. 

I also learned how lonely it can be, and how much harder it was for me to practice the language compared to my friends who lived with host families or with French roommates. 

This time around, I wanted to work on my language skills, and given how small the city I was placed in seemed in comparison to Paris’ bustling street life, I knew I wanted to take up the offer. 

At this point, it was time for me to get moving on my Visa. Last time I went abroad, I was a student, so there was a different application I had to submit with different materials and requirements. This time, I was applying for a work visa. I admit that I did not prepare myself for my visa appointment as well as I did the first time. Maybe it was nerves and avoidance, or overconfidence. Whatever it was, it did not lead me to a smooth experience at the French Consulate. 

The morning of the Visa appointment, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to catch the bus to San Francisco. At roughly 5:45, I realized I needed to bring a copy of my diploma to the appointment. At 5:46, I discovered my printer was broken and unable to make a copy. So, from 5:47 to my appointment at 8:30, I was overcome with anxiety that I would not be able to get my visa. 

At the French Consulate, I was face-to-face with a consular officer who did not mess around. I overheard her scolding the couple ahead of me, as they shuffled through their documents in panic. Her sharp tone did not exactly ease the nerves that were building up all morning. 

I had to ask her to copy three of my documents and, worse, she discovered I had filled out the wrong application entirely (I picked internship instead of posting worker). She re-entered everything, and at that point, I couldn’t blame her for any tone she gave me. I thanked her profusely and tried not to think too hard about how everyone could hear me being reprimanded. It was not my best work as an applicant. I quietly acknowledged that overconfidence and under-preparation do not go hand in hand with going abroad. 

Luckily, within a week of my appointment, my passport came back to me with a brand new visa inside. 

I admit that during the weeks leading up to my departure, I’ve had some second guesses.

I’m leaving my friends, my family, my boyfriend, and the comfort of boxed mac n cheese to embark on this journey. I’ll have a ten-hour time difference between my friends and family on the West Coast, and a six-hour time difference between my boyfriend and friends living on the East Coast. I have nights of doubt and fear, and sometimes even regret for my choice to go. It’s not easy to step out of your comfort zone, especially alone. 

I’ve felt ashamed at times to admit that I was unsure of my decision to go or that I wasn’t sure if I was excited to go. However, I tried to remind myself that whatever emotions of fear or anxiety I felt leading up to the experience would not hold a candle to the experiences I’ll gain by the end. 

Before leaving college, I had dozens of insightful chats with the people I had grown so close to during my time at school. My freshman-year roommate and one of my best friends particularly sent me off with some important wisdom. She told me that it was time to move past measuring time in college milestones. There are no more terms or school years, or winter break. College is a tiny fraction of my whole life, and as daunting as seven months abroad can seem, it was an even smaller piece of my life. So we must cherish it.  

I feel incredibly grateful to return to have the opportunity to return to France, and to return with more purpose, more awareness, and more intention than before. I get to spend seven months immersed in a culture I love, working in a school, speaking a language I’ve studied for years, and living with a family who has already shown me such generosity. Even with every second guess or shred of anxiety, this is a rare chance to grow. Leaving is hard, but staying wouldn’t teach me nearly as much. It’s a privilege to get to grow like this, and I don’t take it for granted.