What's in a name?

Well yesterday was a day of firsts. I went 4/4 on not getting charged for overweight luggage, survived my first argument with a French person (two actually, and they were police officers), found my way to the Roissy bus - which took me directly to l’Opera in Paris - and made my way to Gare St. Lazare without even looking at the directions that I had printed out.

From the 45 minutes that I was there, I felt like I was in an older, more crowded New York, where the key to not standing out (even though you have a 61 pound red suitcase and two massive backpacks) is to look angry, walk quickly and act like you know where you’re going. At the train station I tried in vain to use my credit card to buy a ticket at the kiosk, only to have it beep loudly and tell me my card wasn’t working. I knew that French credit cards have a chip in them, but I thought maybe, by chance, I’d be able to get away without one. Bon effort.

So I had to go to the ticket counter where I ordered a one-way ticket to the train station closest to my town and my carte 12-25, whose discounts I am looking forward to benefitting from. When the woman asked for my “carte d’identité” I told her that all I had was my passport and handed it over to her. While she was looking at the front page she asked me,
“So when did you move to the United States?”
Confused, I replied, “Uhh I’ve always lived there.”
“But you are French no?”
Thankful for the 11 letters that I used to hate having to practice writing in kindergarten I smiled and said, “No I’m not, but my last name is.”
So far everyone I’ve met at my school seems to appreciate the French-ness of my name, probably because it makes it much less painful for them to pronounce than a “typical” American surname. They’ve even Frenchified my first name, since “Matt” requires an awkward emphasis on the double t.

The contact person at my high school came to meet me at the train station with her husband and took me to my room at the school. A surprise that I had not anticipated was the accent. Until this point I hadn’t had much difficulty understanding the majority of what was said to me, but she and her husband were a different story. Granted, it probably would be easier if they slowed down a bit, which they do, in fact, do after I’ve run out of my allotted number of blank stares and “Pardon?” I thought it might just be them, but today as I was walking around town after getting my phone and some groceries I had a group of little kids ask me what time it was and I had no idea what they were saying to me until their third attempt. I’m hoping that eventually it’ll be easier for me to understand them once I get into French mode, but for now, merde.