I never thought I would need to say the phrase “I don’t eat tube meats because I had a bad experience the last time I ate them,” in French. Random? Certainly. Important? Absolutely. I sat in a warm, breezy, sunny backyard garden face to face with Annick, my host mother, whom I had met less than an hour before, wishing more than anything that I knew how to say that one phrase.

A lot had happened in that hour – I arrived in Tours, gathered my bag from the bus and stood waiting to be paired with a roommate for the homestay. The director of my program, Lucy, took me aside after everyone had been paired off and told me that because of an issue with her visa, my roommate couldn’t make it to France. I must have looked panicked to be alone because she offered to host me herself instead of giving me a host family. No, I thought, I did not travel to France to stay with an American woman.

Annick picked me up about ten minutes later. She zipped up in her very European, very compact car, parking half on the sidewalk of the narrow street—a spot I had not thought existed. Our introductions, facilitated by Lucy, were not as awkward as I had expected. Despite my jetlag, not half-bad French flowed from my mouth as I briefly explained my background. Not off to a bad start, I thought, despite being alone.

In the car, Annick asked me to confirm that I was in fact allergic to eggplant as my information sheet said. She then asked if I had any other dietary restrictions – mainly if I was okay with fish. Yes, I said, I love fish and no, there was nothing else to note that came quickly to my jetlagged, confused and overwhelmed mind.

We arrived at her house; she showed me my bedroom and bathroom and left me to unpack while she fixed our dinner in the kitchen. I found my way downstairs and outside to Annick’s impressively tended garden and took the seat across from the one with a full wine glass. I was not sure of the time. Was it dinnertime? I was more tired than anything, but I figured I should eat.

I was watching one of Annick’s cats play in the flowerbeds as Annick appeared at the door, explaining how happy she was to have an American homestay student. She recalled the nationalities of her past students—I think the tally was five Brits and six other Europeans. I did not know what to say to this so I just smiled. I offered to help carry some plates but she said no, so I just sat at the table as she brought each plate out. The first, pieces of baguette. The second, sliced tomatoes that she explained were from her garden and some lettuce as well. On her third trip, Annick emerged holding a bottle of white wine and a half-drunk glass that I realized was hers as she handed the full one to me. Whoops, I thought, I guess I sat in the wrong place. Everything was feeling very French, very fresh and local, down to the Sancerre that was made less than 100 miles from where we sat.

Some baguette with tomatoes seemed like the perfect dinner for my travel-twisted stomach. She sat down, cut the baguette and handed me a piece that was sliced horizontally as if to make a sandwich. A ringing came from the kitchen and she got up again and returned with a plate holding three…were they hot dogs…oh no. I froze. Whatever it was, it was certainly tube meat. I did not know what to say or do. I took my time lining my baguette with slices of tomatoes so that I could watch what she did. She put one of the tube meats into her baguette, folded it and bit it as if it were a hotdog at Fenway Park. She then looked to me for confirmation that she had done it correctly. An American meal with a French twist, she explained, beaming. I couldn’t tell her. I wondered how inappropriate would it be to explain to this stranger that the last time I ate a hotdog I was in first grade and vomited all over the place and that I hadn’t gone near one since… Here goes nothing, I thought, as I loaded one onto my baguette. No no, she said, there were two for me.