August, 1991

It was the summer of 91. One of the hottest summers I can remember. I was 17 years old.
My dad ordered me to mow the lawn, cut the hedge and paint the garage doors, like he would every summer. He couldn't stand the idea that we didn't have to go to school for two months.
I was working in the garden, when he suddenly came up to me and said that I had to stay home that afternoon, because someone was coming to see me.
When I asked who, he said that a man was coming to talk to me about a holiday in France, to learn French.
My heart skipped some beats. I was stunned. He wanted to send me on a boring holiday in France to learn French?? And he never even talked to me about it until now?? He'd better think again, because I wasn't going. Nope. Nuh uh. Never.

When a guy in a suit showed up that afternoon, sat down at our livingroom table and presented some papers for my father to sign, I realized what was going on. It had all been decided already behind my back. The papers were ready to sign, and I could just as well start packing my bags. I hated my dad for not even discussing this trip with me. I was sure that I was going to have the worst time of my life.


A few weeks later, I was waiting for the bus to arrive on an abandoned market place at 6 o'clock in the morning. The bus would stop at different cities throughout belgium, to pick up other people of my age that were being sent to the same hell in France.
In my town, only the first two victims had to get on the bus, a girl and me. She was very extrovert, came to sit next to me on the bus, introduced herself and started talking very spontaneously. We got along quite well. Later that day, other participants had the idea that she and I had known each other for years.

We were all staying with local families in Tours, France. We had to attend classes in the morning and would go on excursions in the afternoon, visiting castles and vineyards. On some days, we would have the afternoon off.
A small group of participants became very close in just a few days time. We were young, wanted to have fun, and were decided to make the best of this holiday.

My French parents were very modern, very trusting. They told me that the Belgians had the reputation of going out all night. So who was I to break with that tradition.
And so some of us came together every night and went to the clubs until they closed at 3 in the morning. Afterwards, we would buy a few bottles of wine and gather at the banks of the river Loire. By the time the baker started working in the morning, we would knock on the door of his workplace for fresh bread, and when it started to get light again, we would walk home for a few hours of rest before we had to go to class again.
We had a great time. We got drunk at the vineyards, drove from one club to another in cars of total strangers that we didn't understand, mislead our supervisors by getting into cabs and getting out again at the end of the street.

When we got back to Belgium two weeks later, some of us broke down in tears while saying goodbye. For many of us, it was the first time that we had experienced independence. And although I may not have learned a lot of French during those two weeks, I DID learn a lot about myself.


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