Pau, France

When I was a sophomore in college I struck up a deal with my parents. I would graduate a year early, if they let me do a study abroad program over the summer. I had always wanted to learn French, and I had convinced them that living abroad was the only way I would become fluent. So, equipped with a stuffed suitcase, my measly language skills from one semester of French 101 and a passport with an alarming number of blank pages, I set off to spend a summer in Pau, France.

The reality of this wild new adventure set in when they offered me wine on the flight. I politely declined as my 19 year-old stomach experienced turbulence all its own. After what felt like the longest 9 hours of my life, my sheer fear turned into unbridled excitement as soon as I landed and quickly found the other wide-eyed 20 year olds in my program.

After a magical week in Paris spent getting to know the interesting study abroad characters in my program, we headed down to our home for the next eight weeks – a tiny town nestled between the Pyrenees Mountains, Pau.

That first night I settled in with two girls who introduced me to the hangout for all the American study abroad students; a local Irish Pub called The Galway on the one street they called downtown.

There we met up with a group of expats they knew from their last few weeks. A nice Norwegian guy and a Ukrainian. It was a night buzzing with conversations and beers. I immediately clicked with the Ukrainian, Marko, in a way that all those gross love cliches suggest.

I went to bed drunkenly dreaming about the next time I would see Marko.

But I didn’t.

For two weeks he was nowhere to be found. We saw his friends on most nights at The Galway but not him. That was it. He was avoiding me and I had no choice but to drown my sorrows in stinky cheese and 1 Euro wines.

Then one night I got a message that made me sit straight up in my uncomfortable dorm room bed.

“Hey Em! I don't know whether you check your paper mailbox, there should be something for you in it.”

Mailbox? Did I even have a mailbox? I don’t even know my address. How did he find it? I fumbled through my clothes-strewn dorm room trying to find all the things they had given me upon arrival. Under a pile of unfolded t-shirts I found a tiny set of what just might be mailbox keys.

I sprinted down the stairs, stumbling over my own feet in excitement and scanned the wall anxiously looking for the number of my room. A number I hadn’t even really paid attention to until then. And I spotted it 105. Guess I did have a mailbox.

After jiggling the keys enough to finally get it to open (more on that later) I pulled out a letter with careful cursive that read: Miss Emily Smith. Inside was a handwritten note from Marko asking me to join him for dinner in perfect english I could just tell he poured over. What an upgrade from the drunken frat boys who can’t even bother to end their “U up” texts with a question mark. So, I raced back up to my computer and struggled to type a response as my fingers shook with excitement.

We made a date for that Friday. 8pm.

I had just finished my hair when he pulled up to my dorm. I quickly double checked my outfit, pretending it wasn’t the only nice dress I brought before heading downstairs. In the stairwell, I caught a glimpse of him waiting by his car, standing beside the passenger door holding a single red rose. That’s when it dawned on me. This was the first official date I had ever been on.

I was shocked he couldn’t hear my heart pounding over the radio as we drove into town. As we parked and walked down the winding cobblestone streets I wondered if this was actually real life.

We turned into a tiny candlelit bistro that was hands down the most romantic place I had ever set foot in. I had never felt so adult. I tried my best to decipher the menu, but the “bonjour” and “fromage” I learned in French 101 was no help for me here. Partly because the food was so fancy, I wouldn’t know what it was in English! And with one glance at my furrowed brow, Marko said, “Are you willing to try something?”.

“Yes” I said, only slightly skeptically.

“I’ll order for you. It’s okay if you don’t like it, but you have to have at least one bite.”

I agreed and he proceeded to order a full three-course meal. As the first course came out, I asked what it was.

“You have to have a bite, then I’ll tell you.” He teased.

Following his lead, I scooped the greyish-brown butter-looking thing out of the tiny pot in front of me and spread it on a small sliver of bread before taking a bite.

Immediately my face lit up and he laughed.

“You like it?”

“Yes! What is it?”

“Fois Gras!”

He was right in telling me after. Inhumanely fattened up duck liver is a lot less delicious when you know the backstory.

The rest of dinner was filled with the best conversation and risotto I had ever had. For the first time I had understood what the “feeling like you’re the only ones in the room” clique meant. Though by the time I actually looked around, we were literally the only ones in the room. The restaurant owner was setting chairs on the table, clearly trying to close up since every single other patron had left, but she dared not to disturb our budding romance.

Marko asked for the check and I looked to try to offer to split. But what this broke college girl had budgeted wouldn’t even cover half of my half of the fancy dinner.

I thanked Marko as we waltzed out of the restaurant and he insisted I try another French tradition, the post-dinner walk. So for two hours we wandered the small starlit town. He showed me the old castle, cable car and winding alleys. At this point, I was 100% sure this was actually a dream. So, when we arrived at his doorstep I was waiting for a pinch, alarm clock, anything to remind me this was too good to be true.

But no.

He looked at me and I smiled gingerly back, clearly still on a high from dinner. And that was it, he leaned in for the most romantic first kiss a girl could ever dream of. The kind of hands-on-the-small-of-your-back type kiss. He leaned in, pushing me up against the wall. My only reference for romance like this was movies, but this was better.

Somehow while making out he was able to suavely find his keys to open his door and quickly whisk me into his apartment.

In the morning I woke up alone and utterly confused. I hopped out of bed and looked around the tiny apartment. Marko was nowhere to be found.

Just when I began to panic, the door swung open. Marko had remembered me saying I didn’t like coffee, only apple juice (Yes, I was a literal child). And he had hopped out to grab us juice and pain au chocolat.

As I ate my breakfast, I knew this was just the beginning.

We filled the remaining weeks with countless adventures. We went wine tasting to some of the best wineries in the Pyrenees. In an impromptu trip to Spain we searched for extreme tapas (think pig ears and intestines) and I learned that the Mexican Spanish they taught me back home would not get me anywhere across the Atlantic. Back in Pau, he introduced me to more Basque delicacies and even spent 10 euros on peanut butter and tried to make me pancakes. I didn’t have the heart to tell him his concoction was just crepes.

But what happened between those adventures is what I’ll never forget. One time relaxing in his apartment he playfully handed me a french dirty talk for dummies book and cracked up as I attempted to say each line with my thick American accent. He serenaded me on the guitar as I fell asleep and yelled at the locals who tried to catcalling me on the street. When it came time for me to go, he woke up at 3 am to take me to the airport and gave me a send-off hug I can still feel if I close my eyes.

He’s why during my eight weeks in France, I did everything but learn French.