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A few weeks into my stay in Tours, I have continued to notice subtle differences between the lifestyles of the Americans and the French. One random difference that I certainly didn’t expect is that the French really seem to like fresh-pressed orange juice. Many cafés in Tours serve fresh-pressed orange juice. Even when visiting Versailles, there were carts that served fresh-pressed orange juice around every turn. And, my host mom served fresh-pressed orange juice almost every morning for breakfast.

Before continuing with discussion of orange juice, I would like to revisit an idea I touched on in a previous post. One of the most significant differences I have noticed between France and the United States is the overall lifestyle, particularly regarding meals. Meals with my host family have been one of my favorite parts of my experience in Tours. Dinners usually begin around 8 or 8:30, and tend to go until around 10 (sometimes even later!). I can tell that my host family views dinner as a marker of the end of the day; after dinner, everyone goes to bed. Dinner is a time to unwind, converse, and relax. Through these dinners, I have gotten to practice my French a lot (I think they have even helped me improve more than my French classes), while learning a lot about my host family through their crazy stories of things that happened when they were young and the teasing jokes that have developed between them and those of us staying with them.

My host mom is a self-proclaimed night owl (she likes to paint at night), so breakfasts work a little differently. After my first breakfast, my host mom showed me around the kitchen, pointing out where different things were, so that I could assemble my own breakfast, based on what I liked. She would leave out certain things, but I knew to grab things from the fridge or pantry.

A few days into my first week, my host mom wanted to have a conversation with me about breakfast (at this point, this was definitely a very big struggle, since we didn’t know each other well yet, and the language barrier was very prevalent). Still holding the stereotype that the French don’t really like Americans since we are not known to make an effort to speak other languages (which was proven very quickly to be very wrong!), I assumed that I had violated some unspoken rule. It became clear quickly that she was confused why I hadn’t taken up her offer on making myself fresh-pressed orange juice every morning. She had shown me the orange juicer, and told me it was an option, but I had never made orange juice for myself. In the morning, I usually had a couple pieces of toasted baguette with jam or Nutella and perhaps some fruit, before I booked it out the door.

I have never been a morning person, or a big breakfast person. My family, and most of my friends are the same way. I am used to not being hungry in the morning, so I only grab something small that I eat quickly; I almost never have a big sit-down breakfast (this has been the case since elementary school). I even have a lot of friends at Notre Dame who never eat breakfast at all. Similar to dinners with my host family, breakfast normally involves a sit-down meal, with multiple parts, something I am not used to. Because I grab my own breakfasts in the morning (my host dad leaves for work early and my host mom sleeps in a bit later), I was not having big sit-down breakfasts, like they are used to.

My host mom was most concerned that I did not like the breakfast options (which was not at all the case), and, mostly, did I not like fresh-pressed orange juice? She wanted to make sure I knew how to use the juicer, and that I could make it. I explained that, yes, I liked fresh-pressed orange juice, but I do not usually have a big breakfast or enough time in the morning to make myself orange juice (constantly being surrounded by another language is great for learning but also exhausting, and I really value my sleep!). I explained how I am just not a big breakfast person.

The misunderstanding was cleared up very quickly, and my host mom and I both shifted how we did breakfasts. In order to make sure I was drinking fresh-pressed orange juice in the morning, she would often make it the night before. I also made an effort to eat a bigger sit-down breakfast, occasionally with my host mom. I know my host family a lot more now, and I now know that I should not be afraid to have a conversation with them to clear up any misconceptions, since they are great people who have my best interests in my mind.

I am certainly going to miss my host family and our late night dinner conversations when I go home, and, of course, the daily glass of fresh-pressed orange juice!

I think the that Moldova and the U.S. are portrayed differently through Hofstede’s D6 model, especially on the spectrum between individualism and collectivism. Having lived in Seattle, I have witnessed just as much vitriol as charity for/against the poor or homeless. Every homeless person is a drug dealer, a thief, a bum, etc. In Chisinau, a homeless person is always a tragedy, in my experience. When they ask for money, people immediately give it. This comparison does have a few limitations. There are thousands of homeless in Seattle, occupying sprawling homeless camps. A homeless person in Chisinau is a rare sight, and they almost always have a disability or are elderly. It very well could be that both societies are equally communal, but the charity of Washingtonians is stretched so thin that it is invisible.

Moreover, the family and religious community is strong in Moldova. Tenets are strict, and overall patriarchal. Even in the all female nunnery I visited, they bring in a priest every Sunday to give mass. America is not so different, but there is a noticeable erosion of these conservative tendencies, especially within the family, where the man is no longer always the breadwinner. Moreover, it is clear when walking on the street, that despite poverty, families still choose to have children. More and more Americans expect to never have kids. In this sense, American’s have increasingly abandoned the generational community, for one reason or another. This does not appear to be the case in Moldova.

Georgia is an ancient land. It was one of the first countries to christianize, and has been at the crossroad between larger empires for millennia. Nestled amidst the foothills and valleys of the Caucuses, Georgia has preserved its unique culture amidst a tempestuous past. Some speculate that is was here amidst the verdant foothills and sloping broad valleys of the Caucuses that fermented grape juice would be first processed and drank. Wine has become central to Georgian culture, and this sense of merriment continues through piquant Georgian cuisine and all palatable potables.

During a three day sojourn in Tblisi, I was met with breathtaking views, lavish dining, and an unforgettable wine tour. By train I carried on towards the black sea coast and arrived in the subtropical port of Batumi, where I met my wonderful host family. Moving into a completely non-english speaking environment has been a shock therapeutic experience for bolstering my language skills, but I am much appreciative of it. One thing I have noticed is that my host family is extremely hospitable especially given their modest Brezhnevka apartment.

Georgia is known for its resplendent hospitality. During my stay with my host family and other Georgians I have been offered more than words can describe. In America, I am used to eating a light diet and preparing food myself cheap and quick. Never before have I seen so much care put into the preparation and execution of a meal than here, be it for host or guest. My host grandmother also does most of the cooking and cleaning of the household, and refuses vigorously when I try to help. In America there is different expectations regarding housework and I was not used to the Grandmother living with the entire family and doing the house work.

While I at first felt a sense of sorry I came to see the situation through a different lens. Georgia has a strong matriarchal history and the older women as the center and keeper of the house is a proud tradition that goes hand in hand with hospitality. I think that it is important to recognize culture not as a barrier but something we are either born into or adapt to. When I sit at the dinner table and talk amongst my hosts as we eat and drink, I realize that I have not just moved physically (though the flight was long), but also through thousands of years of enshrined traditions and customs that makes Georgia unique.