There I sat, thousands of miles away from my family at an unfamiliar table in an unfamiliar room with fairly unfamiliar people. I was in France. The past week I had a fantastic time touring the magnificent countryside of rolling hills, tiny and insignificant yet charming villages, and yellow-green foliage that may be considered dead in the United States but was so magical and picturesque there. I was with familiar faces, my own friends whom I trusted and were comfortable around. But for the present week, I was thrust into a new and uncomfortable situation before I could join those familiar faces again.
My host family was truly wonderful. They were kind, welcoming, generous, and extremely intelligent. However, they lacked the lovingness and understanding of my family at home, so it was not uncommon for me to feel alone and misunderstood some days. That day was one of those days, and to add even more despair to my situation, my host family was having guests over for diner. The entirety of the day was spent thinking about how their guests would gawk over me, as an American coming to this miniscule village was probably the most exciting thing that had happened in decades. Nonetheless, their excitement would wane as soon as they heard my French, which was proficient, but far from conversational. My heart dropped as I heard the ring of the doorbell, and I emerged from my room for dinner like a dog with its tail between its legs.
The first to enter was a hulking man of about six foot tall, which was very tall by the French’s standards. Not only was he abnormally tall, but he was also quite wide. His face was very kind and eccentric, almost like a mad scientist of some sort. When he saw me peering around the corner, he instantly smiled a warm, enthusiastic smile as he pushed his glasses farther onto his nose. He wore a black button-down shirt that looked like it had seen better days and a pair of ill-fitting blue jeans. In his right hand, he held a...