One Thursday some weeks ago, I decided to venture out in Strasbourg on my own for the first time. I normally run all errands to Simply (the closest supermarket) or go into town for some shopping with other people from the group. However, I had the day off from classes and so in an odd ‘assert my female independence’ stance, I left the Chateau after breakfast and decided to visit the Tomi Ungerer Museum by myself. Though the idea sounded invigorating, I would need to maneuver the bus stops on my own, determining ahead of time when to push the Arret Demande button before my stop. That shouldn’t have been a large task, but since I didn’t know exactly where I was going or what stop it was, it seemed a little daunting.
So off I went, umbrella in hand, striding into town on my own. After getting on the bus at Lamproie, I sat alone for the first. I understand this probably sounds pathetic--it is just a bus ride lasting perhaps a total 15 minutes--but coming to Europe on my own, not knowing anyone in my group or any French at all was, at least in my mind, an attempt to prove to myself I can go out on my own, shed my paranoia of something horrible happening while I am alone, and find myself by myself.
But back to the bus: Fleetwood Mac’s Coming Home came on my iPOD and I had a moment of panic. But it was nothing Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car couldn’t cure, a song which would later reappear at a Karaoke Bar in Brussels: easily my favorite night out so far. I mastered the bus and the tram too. I tracked down the museum only to find that it wasn’t open for another hour and a half. I take for granted how often everything is open in the States, and miss being able to even buy groceries on Sunday. Anyway, I wandered around downtown Strasbourg in the rainy cold, mostly window-shopping for a while. I mustered up the courage to enter a patisserie and successfully ordered a curry chicken sandwich in French. So again, I wandered around the streets, window-shopping and people watching. I came upon a large building, the Opera House, and saw the formation of a strike – a few dozen people putting on bright orange vests, getting picket signs out of the back of a van. I found it captivating. One hears often about how the French go on strike all the time, but I was witnessing one. So I stood off to the side by a tree, watching.
Then, two men approached me, speaking French. I immediately experienced the familiar panic one feels when confronted with a language one doesn’t understand. I was the very picture of a deer in headlights. I muttered a “Je suis désolée, ne parle pas francais. Anglais??” and they shook their heads “no”. Then, before I could think to protest, they escorted me to the steps of the Opera House in the center of the strike.
Despite blaring music and waving signs, they got all the strikers’ attention to find someone who spoke English. Finally, a guy my age came up. Most of the students in Strasbourg speak English, and this one began to explain the reasons for the strike to me. He works for the Union that helps organize strikes. As he explained the working conditions, why they chose the location, and the responsibilities of his job, I thought to myself how lucky I am to be able to have the opportunity to be here, to venture out for a day and end up taking part in a French Strike. I stayed for a little over an hour, making friends through the language barrier and even getting to go in the Opera House Lobby since it was so cold out. I still haven’t made it to the museum I intended to that day, but how many people can say they have been in a French strike? I found a good dose of the independence I was looking for that day, and certainly gained the confidence to do it again.
Heather Hager
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