A la plage

Day 16
June 22nd

The beach again! We went on one of our first weekends with our friend Houda, a Yemeni/French/Djbouti woman living in Rabat. When I started packing for Morocco, I hardly thought that I would be able to wear a bikini on the beach. Turns out that that is not the case at all. There are plenty of women and girls wearing string bikinis on the beaches. There are even still a few women in headscarves. Moroccan beaches are always crowded, no matter what time of day, especially on the weekends. Coming from a landlocked state, anything regarding the ocean or beaches has always fascinated me.

This time we drove to Skhirhat beach with some Moroccan boys. We had to drive through a dry, dusty field to get to the dirt parking lot for the beach. First we passed by a ramshackle house made of corrugated steel. The owner, a weather-beaten and leathery farmer charged us 5 dh ($0.71) for crossing his land to get to the beach. Looking at the two hundred cars parked on the other side, I'm guessing that he made much more money charging a toll than he did for farming.

The beach is just like a beach in any other country. The sand is deep, the Atlantic cool and refreshing. But you do have to watch out for strong currents. Someone is always playing ping-pong or volleyball—you can easily join the game because everyone is very friendly.

Houda at Bouznika beach

Scouting out the goods

Day 15
June 21st

I found the true souq of Rabat! After all my comparisons to the medina of Casablanca, Rabat has finally revealed its treasures to me. Our internship director from Wellesley, Tere, came to visit and check up on the interns. After traveling throughout the world, she has a solid background in bargaining for antique jewelry in developing countries. She led us to Rue des Consuls, which is lined with shops selling gold jewelry, silver jewelry, leather shoes, leather coats, leather poufs, brass lamps, wood furniture, artwork, pottery, cheap shoes, knock-off purses, goods imported from sub-Saharan Africa, and anything else that you can imagine. It was like the whole other half of the medina opened up to me. Although I didn't buy anything, I now have a long shopping list.

One of the stores that we stopped in had a beautiful pair of silver earrings in the shape of vines with several dangling coral beads. I decided not to buy them right then, but to wait instead. Tere spent twenty minutes bargaining with the shop owner for a Berber-style antique silver brooch. To seal the deal, she threw me in as an extra bonus for the shop keeper. I had thought that he was simply impressed by my French but apparently he gave her a better deal with the promise that I would return to his shop. Maybe I'll get a good deal on those earrings…

Photo courtesy of Stephanie Brown

Restaurant Review

Day 8
June 14th

A week in the cross-roads of Africa and Europe! I can hardly believe that so much time has already gone by. It's also been hard to realize that my year in Aix is definitely finished. I keep mentioning it, "When I was in France…" "In France, they always…" I am really starting to sound like a snob. There is something that is inherently more snobby about constantly referencing your experiences in France than in any other country.

The weather has been really nice, too. Despite snickers that I die of the heat, humidity, and always being covered up, I have been doing well without A/C. It has ony been in the 80's and mildly humid. Usually, there's a nice breeze. But the summer will only get hotter!

The only criticism that I have after a week is the food. Yes, I have been pretty disappointed. Moroccan food is diverse, delicious, hearty, full of spices—and hard to find in restaurants. So far, the best food that I have had is at the cafeteria at the CCCL which is the closest to home-cooked Moroccan as possible. Brahim, the chef (who has a wonderful sense of humor) cooks all sorts of vegetable and meat ragouts and soups. For lunch on Friday, the entire staff of CCCL had a traditional couscous lunch at the center. About twelve people at a time sat around a round table laden with a huge clay dish full of couscous, chicken, and stewed vegetables. We each got a spoon and dug in. Moroccan table manners are simple—respect your zone, the triangular slice of the dish right in front of you, and never cross in front of someone else's spoon. The only part that I didn't absolutely love about the couscous lunch was the buttermilk. Oh yes, a huge glass of buttermilk is traditionally served with couscous lunch. Sadly, I am completely averse to drinking anything that looks, tastes, and separates just like soured milk.

After eating in restaurants for a whole week, I am getting pretty sick of the selection here. Most restaurants feature several choices: sandwich, pizza, or kebab with the option of lamb, beef, chicken, or tuna. Multiply that and you have twelve dishes to choose from. Everything comes with a side of French fries and mayonnaise. All of the salads are covered in mayonnaise as a dressing. I even went to a Syrian restaurant (one of the few ethnic restaurants in Rabat) where I had falafel, a shawarma sandwich and mayonnaise. It's much more than a condiment here; it's a style of cooking. Too bad I hate mayonnaise. Yes, after France, I grew to like the taste of raw egg but just thinking about it in combination with oil makes my poor arteries contract in fear. Maybe at the end of the summer, I will be able to add mayonnaise to the list of things that I learned to appreciate about Morocco. Until then, it's just going to continue to ruin my appetite. Hopefully, it's just the city of Rabat but I am afraid that it's actually the advent of Western culture, sadly misappropriated.

I also am getting tired of the greasy spoon restaurants. I am on a 50 dirham per meal or $7 budget which means no fancy restaurants everyday. So the ones that offer couscous at 25 dirham are very appealing, despite all appearances to the contrary. However, I have never been a fan of greasy spoon restaurants. This is something that I feel rather guilty about. I feel as though I should have a favorite greasy spoon place that I like to eat at regularly in the US. I don't. And I judge. I admit that now. Plastic chairs, flies, dirty tablecloths, and used ketchup bottles turn me off here just as much as they do in the US. Or in Spain for that matter. I still have bad memories of eating plain rice covered with ketchup labeled as "Cuban rice" in a greasy, smoke-filled hole in Barcelona. It was a waste of eight euros and completely unsatisfying. So although I must remind myself that cleanliness standards are different in Morocco, it's hard to let go of my normal standards. It is entirely possible to find good, clean, cheap restaurants here--you just have to look. I found one right near my hotel last night that serves the same things as all the rest, yet it's much cleaner and has a huge flat screen TV. It will probably be my new favorite place to eat dinner.

This is not to say that I am picky or a germophobe. I can eat a meal in a filthy restaurant, it's just that I would prefer not to. Today, after spending the afternoon at the beach, we ate at a roadside restaurant near Bouznika. It was really nice sitting outside at dusk. The meat at the restaurant was very fresh; it was still draining blood and hanging about ten feet away from our table. The feral cats really liked the restaurant, too, especially the bucket of bones, gristle, and intestines on the side. And I'm sure that if you asked all of the crows and flies, they would also give you a strong recommendation. I think that I should get major props for finishing my meal without gagging.

Street Vendors

Day 6
June 12th

Everything is still going well. I ventured my first snack from a street vendor—grilled corn! Delicious. I was a little wary when I first saw the carts that the vendors haul out onto the street of the medina at rush hour, around 6 pm. The carts are not very clean or sturdy looking and they roast the ears of corn over open coals, fanning them with a piece of dirty cardboard. After I bought mine, he asked if I wanted salt--of course I did--then he plunged the entire, blackened ear into a container of dirty salt water. But it was still good, burnt and salty!

I finally arranged my cell phone. I still had an international phone from France so I bought a new SIM card with Maroc Telecom. Sadly, I made some beginner's bargaining mistakes. I bought it from the first stall that I walked into and paid the full asking price. He named 50 dirhams and I was just so amazed that a SIM card could only cost $7 that I didn't even think of bargaining, especially for electronics. A fair price would have been 15 or 20 dirhams, around $2 or $3. Putain. The electronics that are available are amazing. You can find authentic ipods and iphones for about twice as much, but the fakes are the real bargain. A fake ipod video nano costs about 300 dirhams or $43. I have to wonder how well they work. You can also find any kind of fancy cell phone for the same price.

I am learning very quickly how and when to bargain. You can argue about the price anywhere where there aren't any prices listed, especially in the medina. And never, ever pay the first price that the vendor asks for! So far, I haven't had the same customer treatment as I had in Casablanca, where the shopkeeper would sit me down in the store and pull every single item off of the shelves in order to entice me. I actually made friends with Khaled, my connection in the Casablanca medina who supposedly gave me "prix d'ami" or a price for a friend and taught me some Berber words. But Casablanca's medina is much touristier. My friends and I spent a day being led on a wild goose chase through the whole medina in search of a wooden box and a pair of sequined shoes. We first ran into a shopkeeper who spoke English very well and then he just hustled us from one relative's shop to another's for a few hours. I never saw shoes that I actually liked but I did see all manner of leather goods and "magic" wooden boxes.

It is really cool to see what people hawk on the streets as well. Sunglasses, dress shirts, shoes, suits, band-aids, surgical gloves, pirated DVDs. Pirated DVDs cost about a dollar each, which is literally putting the movie theaters out of business. I can buy an entire season of Alias or 24 for mere dollars…my friend told me that Americans always go home with bags of DVDs.

A wedding celebration

Day 2

June 7th

Saturday was an absolutely incredible day in the full meaning of the word. I literally spent the day eating with Stephanie the other intern and Krispijn (pronounced Chrish-pein) our new Dutch friend. (Ok, it wasn't just incredible due to the constant flow of food.) I was already on the fourth café of the day when Stephanie and I decided to explore the medina. Like all cities in Morocco, Rabat has an older, walled section called a medina, or city in Arabic. Some medinas date to jahaliyya or the period before the advent of Islam in 632 AD. Others, like that of Rabat, were built in the medieval ages. The medina is usually a twisting rabbit warren of stucco buildings, ancient mosques, and shop stalls selling everything from leather goods, cheap clothing, electronics, produce, jewelry, and cleaning supplies. Every city's medina has a different flavor. The medina of Casablanca is aimed towards selling traditional Moroccan crafts and is literally a maze of tiny, dirt alleyways. Rabat's medina is entirely different. First of all, it has boulevards that make it much easier to navigate. There are much fewer traditional goods to be bought and much, much more electronics. The streets are also paved with tiles which makes it a lot less dirty. In the more residential section of the medina, the buildings are white-washed with tile decorations and beautiful, wooden doors.

Stephanie and I were wondering around the residential section when we passed by a group of young women our age in red costumes sitting in front of a house where loud traditional music was issuing forth. We passed by and then decided to turn and around to ask what the special event was. A wedding! The women asked if we wanted to see what was going on, and just ushered us in. It was a traditional Moroccan-style house and once we passed through the tiled entry-way, we found the main celebration of the wedding in a small tiled courtyard, with rows of chairs and an awning. The space was packed with women, all wearing their finest. Every woman was wearing a djellaba or traditional gown, with coordinating headscarves and belts. There were so many colors and patterns and infinite details such as rows of tiny buttons and crystals and sequins everywhere! The bride, in a bejeweled red gown, was sitting as though she were a regal queen on a silver sequined dais in the front. To her left, a band of women were playing traditional music, mostly drums and singing. It was absolutely amazing! We thought that we would only watch for a few minutes but several of the women came over, took chairs from other guests, and bade us to sit down. Over and over, the women welcomed us, in French and Arabic. After sitting for awhile, the four women in costumes led us back into the entry-way and served us a huge platter of chicken and lamb tajine and Coca-cola. We were the only ones eating! It traditional Moroccan-style; we ate with our hands and chatted with Hanane, the leader of the group who spoke the most French. It turns out that they were the hired dancers for the wedding. Hanane is studying to be chef and she only does weddings on the side for pocket money. One of the first questions was whether or not we were married. We had a hilarious conversation with a lot of mute gesturing about Saida, another one of the dancers, who wanted us to look for a husband for her. "When?" she asked, twisting her ring finger as though she had an invisible ring. "When I go back to the States, I'll look for one for you," I promised. "Black or white, Saida?" the other girls demanded. "No, no, he'd better be white," she laughed. Stephanie asked if they had brothers so that we could switch which made all of us laugh.

When we were done eating, it was time for the girls to perform. Accompanied by a CD of traditional music, they led the bride (who had changed into a golden djellaba) to sit on a wooden palanquin, hand-carved for the occasion. They hoisted the palanquin up on their shoulders and started a choreographed dance, spinning, raising and lowering the palanquin. The four girls were wearing almost rodeo-style costumes, red and white, with capes. They used the capes to create a swirl of red and white around the bride and stopped to pose for several pictures in various creative poses. After the dance was finished, caterers brought everyone mint tea and sweets. Now it was time to dance. We were pulled up to the dance floor a few times, including by the adorable 10 year-old girls in attendance. Of course, we felt pretty awkward, just wearing jeans and having no clue how to dance well. A woman was video-taping the entire celebration, and I am sure that she has more than a few good shots of us, standing out like awkward foreigners in the middle of the wedding. After a little while longer, we left with Hanane and the other dancers as they were packing up their things. By that time, they had all changed into western, street-clothing. More guests asked us to stay, but we had to decline. We said good-bye to the girls, kissing them each once on the left cheek and then twice on the other cheek. We exchanged phone numbers and they promised that they would dance for free at either of our weddings if we got married in Morocco. Hanane kept repeating that we had entered into their hearts, and that we were truly special guests.

None of our Moroccan co-workers were particularly surprised when we told them the story. That kind of hospitality is normal here. And although we only stayed for two hours, we only saw a sliver of he celebration. Most weddings feature at least six or eight dresses for the bride. This one was also a fairly conservative celebration since the sexes were segregated. I have to wonderful what the men were doing during the whole time!

La première nuit et on a déjà fait la fête!

Rabat, Morocco
Day 1

I expected to start off my first blog entry in Morocco with a ridiculously romantic sentence like, "I stepped off the plane into the blinding and humid sunlight where waving palm trees welcomed me to North Africa." However, the trip didn't go exactly well as I had hoped. I was never more relieved to board a plane before. It was an awful last 48 hours.

First lesson that I learned: I really need to pack a lot less. I don't know exactly how it happens but I accumulate so much crap. If you have seen me move in or out of my dorm room, you know how true this is. I thought that I had packed pretty lightly but after spending around 240 euros to ship boxes pack to the States, I have painfully realized how wrong I was.

It was even more stressful when I arrived at the airport in Marseille to fly to Casablanca to find that my luggage was overweight by 15 kg. The woman at the desk was really harsh and told me that I had to take out about 15 kg (about 30 lbs) out of two suitcases before she checked them. Only after I had desperately tried to decide what to throw out and what I could possibly carry on, on the verge of tears, did she mention that I could just pay for the extra kilos. Pay handsomely for the extra kilos, that is, at about 6 euros each. Of course that still left me with carry-on that was overweight by another 6 kg. The woman was so mean and condescending that she made me worry that they would weigh the carry-on at the gate and I would be forced to throw out more things. Between my laptop, camera and some clothing, it would have to be my French Harry Potter books that went. So I found myself about to leave for Morocco, crying in the bathroom, stressed and worried. (Sadly, crying in an airport bathroom is not a first for me. Usually, the root cause is that I really don’t want to leave said country.) But thankfully I (and all 7 HP books) got on the plane just fine. It was a very Kellye moment, lol.

Thus far, Morocco has not been nearly as foreign or overwhelming as I thought it would be. It helps that I had already spent five days in Casablanca on vacation. But even more so, my year in France helped prepare me. I know that I can do anything that I need to in French. I am also used to be stared at constantly and knowing that I am obviously a foreigner. I have barely even noticed the staring this time around.

My first night went much, much differently than I would ever expect. I met a large slice of the young ex-patriot community at a rooftop party in the old Oudayas neighborhood. It was a Great Gatsby-themed party, hosted by a random group of Westerners who live in the same house. Noellie, an eccentric French/American/Moroccan/citizen of the world was the star. It was her prerogative to provide everyone with the costumes. With her smoky accent, long blonde hair, and twenties-style red dress she played the part of the glamorous, ex-pat with dramatic flair. As soon as we met, she pulled out a slinky black dress for me, slit to the thigh in multiple places. With the addition of a red scarf tied flapper-style around my short curly bob and a long string of pearls, I found myself standing rather scantily clad on a roof in the casbah overlooking downtown Rabat, wine cup in hand. In Aix, I had become accustomed to meeting people from around the world all in one place to work, visit or learn and this party was no exception. There were lots of Americans and Dutch people as well as a few Australians and Moroccans. It will be a fascinating summer indeed!

I found that the lingua franca of the party was English, not French. Most of the various students here are in transition or traveling, and staying only to teach English for awhile. Everyone obviously spoke at least a smattering of French but most preferred to use English. I received a lot of compliments on my French along with amazement that I had studied at a French university for an entire year. It was a nice change from France, where no one is ever pleasantly surprised that you speak French. If they are nice enough, they will compliment you on the quality of your French (especially in comparison with their English) but for the most part, everyone expects that if you are in France, you should know French. But I could not imagine spending the summer in Morocco without speaking French!

10 Things that I Learned in France

How does one begin blogging about oneself in an online public forum? One can begin in a variety of trite, trivial introductions designed to catch the devoted blog reader's eye and sense of humor to ensure that he/she/zhe will devote unhealthy amounts of time obsessively reading one's online confessions. And like one in ten American adults, I'm baring my own soul on the most public, international forum possible, the internet. This summer, I am working as an intern through Wellesley College with the Center for Cross-Cultural Learning in Rabat, Morocco. It's the fulfillment of a dream and the apogee of three years of studying French, Arabic and Middle Eastern Studies. I can only strive to make it a full nine weeks of cultural exchange and learning.

As I hop the Mediterranean to go from Wellesley-in-Aix to Wellesley-in-Africa (all expenses paid) I think that it’s important to note exactly where I'm coming from. I am just wrapping up a long luxurious year spent studying French in sunny, snobby Aix-en-Provence, the crown jewel of France's Provençal region. Friday, I'll fly from Marseille to Casablanca to start my very first full-time internship at a Cultural center in Rabat, Morocco. My year abroad has been amazing, just barely short of perfection. Although I cannot claim to be fluent in French even after studying it for seven years, I can claim to have done amazing things in French such as scream for help locked in a Laundromat, enjoy the Sex and the City movie, and understand textos. But looking back on the year, there are some very important lessons I've learned about French culture, American culture, this global generation, and myself.

1. The French never smile.
And it follows that Americans smile far too often. This was a general observation that I was told to expect when I visited France for the first time in high school. I still find that it is true. But now I am so completely used to the lack of dental flash that my cheek muscles are out of practice. A French woman smiled at me today while I was shamefully stealing boxes from the recycling piles to use for packing. I nearly fainted in gratitude. If it had been an American woman, there is no telling what she was thinking when she smiled, "WTF is she doing?!" "What a fool," "Good idea," "Lol," "She's obviously homeless, poor thing," or "I need to buy some new silver sandals." But since this was France and I had not seen a smile on the streets in several weeks that I knew exactly what she was thinking: approval. A very rare gift to be given as a foreigner in public indeed.
I already know that I will be overwhelmed by people smiling constantly and sending complicated mixed messages in the US.

2. Sometimes disgusting food tastes delicious, especially in a salad.
Sometimes. I have really come to love raw egg yolk (which should be a good shock to anyone who knows my standards for hygiene and general aversion to animal products). In France, beef, burgers, crepes, toasted cheese sandwiches called Croque Madame, pasta, risottos, salad dressings—they're all better with raw egg yolk. It also toughens up the digestive system. Cheese in particular works on this same principle. French cheese is more delicious because they do not obsess about multiple flash pasteurizations or expiration dates. In fact, Camembert cheese has three stages of ageing even after you have bought it. It does not reach its peak until 18-35 days after leaving the grocery store. You can still consume it in its mature age, unsealed and opened, at 50 days. I doubt that I have ever seen an expiration date that long on cheese in the US. More disgusting things that I particularly enjoy in salads: goat cheese covered with ash and smoked duck meat.
One French delicacy that I cannot defend is foie gras or literally fat liver. From a goose. It is not hard to find or expensive in the US, it's just in the pet food isle, under a different name such as Fancy Feast or Kitty's Choice. I cannot find any reason to eat something with the texture, taste and smell of cat food on a daily basis.
Of course, defining what is disgusting and what is not often follows cultural lines. Almost to a person, the French believe that peanut butter is absolutely foul and has a disturbing texture. Especially if it's chunky.

3. Balsamic vinegar + olive oil + mustard + lemon juice = French café salad dressing.
Grâce à Mlle J. Rowe

4. The French love American culture although they will never admit to it.
Perhaps constantly inundated by American culture is a more correct way to describe the phenomenon of globalization. Yet I never heard anyone complain about the non-political aspects of American culture. In the clubs, 80% of the music is American from various decades. In the cinemas, even the independent ones that show foreign films, 80% of the movies are American and are simply dubbed. Even in the bookstores, I found a disturbing amount of cheap American bestsellers translated into French. Of course, I also spent most of my time in the two biggest American ex-patriot cities in France, Paris and Aix.
The French language is also full of Anglicisms like "site-web", brownie, cookie, le big love. They even conjugate the word stop. J'ai pas stoppé. Love it.

5. French men are lunatique
That is to say, moody. My experiences with the infamous French lover revolved around text messages and techno music in the Aix nightclub scene. Probably not the best way to find a long-lasting beau in any culture but I can solidly base my generalizations on multiple accounts from both French and American friends. The French man can go from happy/fun/charming/bold/intelligent/sarcastic/selfish/
childish/needy/depressed/pensive/pessimistic/stubborn/cold/distant/asshole in the course of an evening. He usually prefers to string along two or three girls at one time and if that isn't enough drama, then he will always cause more by himself. Really, it's like dating a girl.
My best example is one long night in which I briefly flirted with a friend, danced with him, found out that he was in the middle of breaking up with a girlfriend, and witnessed a screaming match in the middle of the street at 2 am. Half an hour later, he hit on me again. A few weeks later without having seen him at all, he text-messaged me to "break up" saying that he was back with the girlfriend and was going to erase my number. I think that was a hint for me to text him back. Due to a severe lack of cultural misunderstanding, I never responded.

6. French dogs/children obey the same rules.
They both are to be seen but not heard. The beauty is in the key phrase is Ca suffit, that's enough. It is simplicity, class, and versatility in discipline. On the whole, French dogs/children are much less spoiled and coddled than their American counterparts. Despite never using leashes, the French have trained their dogs/children to stay out of people's way. However, they are both still allowed to s**t on the streets. This is not nearly as unsanitary as one may think because a street cleaning truck comes by every night. Except for that one day when everyone noticed that there was either a dog with an upset stomach or just an epidemic.
Also good to note, especially for Americans: never approach a French person to compliment him or her on his or her dog/child. This is seen as overtly familiar and you will be greeted with suspect and disdain.

7. The French higher education system sucks.
I say that after having ripped out every single hair on my head during a particularly frustrating and demoralizing finals period so I will stop there. Suffice it to say that la Fac de lettres has a long arduous road ahead of herself if she ever wants to win back my respect.
Perhaps I should mention rather lamely, I did take a year to leave my own imperfect school to experience another system and after this year, I have definitely learned to appreciate Wellesley. I cannot say that this year it was waste. But that's all the Fac gets.

8. Alcohol=water.
This is a general European attitude, perhaps left over from the medieval ages when it was unsanitary to drink water. In the Czech Republic, law requires that restaurants must offer at least one non-alcoholic drink cheaper than beer. In France, a 75cl wine bottle is cheaper than fancier fruit juices such as Clementine or grapefruit juice. In Madrid, they literally give you (big groups of American study abroad students) free shots and beer just to enter the club before 11pm. A nice, French, five course meal will have more rounds of alcohol than courses. For lunch. We need to change our laws (and attitudes) in the US.

9. Traveling in Europe is unbelievably easy
Two friends and I visited 7 cities in 8 days. We encountered dozens of other students in the hostels that we stayed who were visiting more or less the same cities in a similar amount of time. And there are still cities that I want to see. I am constantly re-amazed every day how much there is to see and do in Europe.
Since I normally take a 3.5 hour long flight from home to college that costs around $120 on a "budget" airline, I am always thrilled to hear stories of cheap, cheap, cheap flights in Europe. With the advent of companies like Ryanair, SkyEurope, Easy Jet and Jet4You, it is possible to take one or two hour-long flights to random destinations at random times for dirt cheap. Some pretty normal examples that I actually found: round-trip Marseille to London for 70 euros on two different carriers. Lyon to Venice, 25 euros via Sky Europe. My personal best was Madrid to Casablanca for 11,99 euros. It gets better. Ryanair once offered a buy one get one sale except that the java script on the website had a flaw that allowed some friends to buy dozens of flights to Scandinavia for FREE. Always a beautiful word to American ears.
All the countries are so cute and tiny and close together that train travel is also an excellent option. It is sometimes still cheaper than budget airlines. I really came to appreciate traveling by train once I got used to the swaying of the cars.
During my travels, I also overstayed in hostels. Never again. Word of advice: budget hotels rock.

10. The French win for best slang words
American English has some excellent slang that I know and love but the French easily have us beat. Some new and/or classic American slang words that I particularly enjoying lately are biggity biz, shit-show, dude, ridic, def, hardcore, tots, sketchy, and creeper. However, the French have a slang word for everything you can possibly think of, some of which are borrowed from Arabic like the verb kiffe (to really, really like something). They even have an entire system for creating new slang words. If it's a really hot party, it isn't a fête, it's a teuf. If you got yourself a woman, she isn't your femme, she's your meuf. If it's really sketchy, it's not louche, it's chalou. Get it?
Also the French win for the most impossible text abbreviations. Why type out the conjunction que when you can just use ke? So much time saved.
And then there are the Anglicisms which are just so good. Imagine if you said, "it's like déjà vu all over again" to an English-speaking French person. It never fails to make me smile when I hear a Frenchman say business, challenge, success story, hardcore, or le Black.
They even have better filler words than um or like. Every other word is bahhhhhh, oaui, fin, je sais pas quoi, enfin, en fait, baaaaaoui, quoi.

Of course, I learned so many things both more profound and pyschologically accurate during my year. But they aren’t nearly as amusing :)