During the next few weeks, Dominique came often to my dormitory, wanting to talk together some more. We took long walks together and I slowly became aware that my feelings toward this Frenchman were changing. Each time he left, I immediately began looking forward to his next visit, though I was still perplexed about a certain aspect of our relationship: the romance, or should I say, the lack of it! Since the evening of the "Boum", he had never made another attempt even to hold my hand as we walked together. This pleased me as much as it puzzled me. For, compared with the average American college man's DRIVE in these matters, this was certainly more relaxing!

Midway through the month of November, while my mother was visiting me, a new evidence of culture shock surfaced among our group of American students. "Hey! Thanksgiving is coming!" we shouted. "That means we'll have some time off from school! Let's go ask our directress how much time we'll get off, so maybe we can plan a little sight-seeing trip while my Mom's here!" When our directress told us we wouldn't have any time off, the traditions of our youth were still so dense we only looked at her in dismay and asked, "Why not?"

"Because the French don't celebrate Thanksgiving," she replied.

"They don't?! Well, why not? That's awful!" we gasped.

Our poor directress stared at us in disbelief and finally exploded, "Guys! The pilgrims didn't land here! There's no Plymouth Rock here!"

We walked quietly away, feeling terribly disoriented and out-of-place once again. How could we not have a Thanksgiving dinner? How could we be expected to go through the entire month of November with no turkey and stuffing, and no pumpkin pie? Well, we would not, we staunchly decided! All those years of growing up in America fairly propelled us to find my mother and declare, "Mom! We want to have a Thanksgiving dinner right here and invite all our French friends! Will you help us?"

Dominique and his sister agreed to host the dinner in their home, and invitations were sent to our friends who didn't have the slightest idea what "Sanksgeeeveeng" was, but were at least lured by the promise of a free meal. Off we went to purchase the turkey and all the trimmings. How fortunate for us that my mother was on hand!

When we opened the package enclosing our prize bird, three American girls stared at each other in horror and then yelled, "MOM!" That turkey was surely dead. But beyond that, all other reminders of its former state still remained before us...a long scrawny neck (picked clean of feathers) boasted a still-feathery head with little, black, beady eyes staring back at us. The rest of the body had been also been stripped of feathers, but two scaly, yellow-clawed feet jabbed up toward us in stiff rigor mortis. As we stared wide-eyed at that particular end of the bird, the most horrifying aspect of the entire scene struck home. It was not open for stuffing! No one had cleaned the insides out of that turkey!

"MOM!" Three American girls quickly left that tiny French kitchen, already giving thanks for the many years of life on a chicken farm that had prepared my mother to attack the poor bird cold-heartedly!

Despite initial reactions, our Thanksgiving celebration proved a success, though I must admit the Americans definitely enjoyed the food more heartily than most of the French students. After dinner, someone suggested a drive out into the countryside and a hike together. Nearly twenty of us piled into the cars that belonged to our French friends.

We drove through tiny country villages of cream-colored houses with rusty-red tile roofs clutching tightly to one another in a twisted maze of narrow winding streets, always built around the central hub of the town square. We could pick out a group of men huddled in a corner of each town square, intent in the competition of a game of "petanque" (a game similar to British lawn bowling or Italian bocci). Black berets mixed with typical French gestures during the heated argument which often surrounded the measurements to determine the winning point. Leaving each village, the tree-lined road wound through vineyards bordered by hand-built stone walls before bringing us in view of the next village nestled against a hillside.