I spent a long weekend away as the sole American amongst a gaggle of seven French folks and it wasn’t even weird. (At least it wasn’t for me, I hope it wasn’t for them.)

I wasn’t confused when every imaginable breakfast option was brought to the table, four different types of bowls and cups, five varieties of carbs, endless supplies of jams and dairy products. I wasn’t befuddled when we spent all of breakfast discussing lunch, the following two hours acquiring supplies for lunch, an hour cooking lunch, and an hour slowly eating it in discussion of dinner. I didn’t panic when everyone was suddenly ready to leave the house without any beautifying, coiffing, or accessorizing. I wasn’t annoyed that everyone magically knew the schedule, the correct order to eat foods, the only way to make a vinaigrette, because I knew these things too.

This hard-earned victory in my ongoing project of French integration wasn’t just due to familiarization. It also had to do with being un-bugged by things that…