debugging my twenties: that summer in france

In summer 2014, after my sophomore year in Kazakhstan, I went to Toulouse for French classes. It was my first time traveling alone, and it completely reset how I saw the world.

before going solo

Growing up in Kazakhstan, I was lucky to travel with my family. By the time I finished high school, I'd visited 9 countries, but always with adults making the decisions.

I'd been learning French since high school, thinking I might do my Master's in France. So for the summer after the second year of undergraduate degree I signed up for an intensive summer program at Alliance Française in Toulouse. Time to see if I could manage alone.

new ways of moving

I bought a bike - something I'd never done before - and started cycling to school each morning across the Garonne river. In Kazakhstan, bikes were for children or exercise. Here, everyone used them to go everywhere.

My French improved daily. Monday's impossible phrase became Friday's normal conversation. But the real education happened outside the classroom.

discovering europe has many faces

Halfway through my stay, I traveled to Northern Spain to meet a Spanish friend from Pamplona. We visited San Sebastián and Bilbao, and I discovered something no textbook had mentioned.

Even though everyone spoke Spanish, using Basque greetings, such as "kaixo" instead of "hola," "agur" instead of "adiós", completely changed how people responded. Bartenders became friendlier. Shop owners started real conversations.

I'd been thinking of Europe as French-speaking France and Spanish-speaking Spain. But here was a region with its own language, its own identity, kept alive despite centuries of pressure. (In Toulouse, I'd already learned about Occitan, the historical language of southern France.) It reminded me of northern-central Kazakhstan, where Russian dominates but Kazakh identity continues. Using their language wasn't about being perfect, it was about seeing them.

That weekend left such an impression that years later, when our second son was born, we named him Asier, a Basque name meaning "the beginning."

voyages forment la jeunesse

Our Alliance Française class took a trip to Carcassonne. Walking through this medieval fortress, I couldn't stop thinking about home.

I was born and raised in Astana, a capital city that used to be a small town when my parents were born. Everything there is new: glass towers, wide boulevards, buildings from the 1990s or later. In all of Kazakhstan, except maybe just Turkestan, you won't find anything older than a few centuries.

But here was a castle from the 1200s, still standing, still used. Built not for decades but for centuries. The stones worn smooth by millions of hands, the walls that had protected fifty generations.

"Les voyages forment la jeunesse" - travel shapes the young. Standing there at 21, I finally understood how differently people can think about time. In Astana, we build fast because we're creating a country. In France, they build to last because they're continuing one. Neither is wrong. But knowing both exist? That changes you.

becoming part of a french family

My deepest education came from my host family. I was their first international student ever, and instead of just giving me a room, they brought me into their life completely.

Jérôme shattered all my ideas about what fathers do. This professional man washed clothes for the whole family, cooked elaborate meals, fixed things around the house - sometimes wearing a white Gucci shirt while doing repairs. He managed his rebellious 18-year-old son (who already lived alone) with calm acceptance that I couldn't understand.

They took me everywhere. We drove to Andorra to watch Cirque du Soleil show. We drove to Sète to meet Françoise's parents. They introduced me to Jérôme's parents too. At dinners, we discussed everything - politics, religion, education. They asked my opinion like I'd always been there.

small changes adding up

Living with them changed me in small ways. I started caring which bread to buy. I learned to drink coffee slowly on their terrace while they smoked and we talked. I discovered that being efficient wasn't always important - sometimes the conversation was the point.

The bike became part of this change too. Such a simple thing, but it changed how I moved through the city, how I saw distances, how I lived each day.

Their house had three floors and a garden. We spent hours on the terrace outside the kitchen - me with coffee, them with cigarettes, talking about everything and nothing.

returning with my own family

Last May, I went back to Toulouse with my wife and two kids. Same house, same warm welcome. Jérôme and Françoise, who had hosted many students since me, were now playing with my 3-year-old Asier in the garden where I once practiced French.

Gaspard, who was 3 when I lived there, now stood taller than me at 13, sleeping in what used to be my room. The older boys were at universities, living their own adventures.

Watching Jérôme teach Asier a French song, I told him something I'd thought about for years: "Watching you taught me how to be a good father."

He looked surprised, then thanked me. He said back then he wasn't sure he was doing well as a father, especially with his oldest son. He'd struggled with doubts. Hearing my perspective from that time, that I saw him as a good father, meant something to him. The struggles with his oldest were long resolved, but my words from the past helped heal old doubts.

what stayed with me

That summer in Toulouse wasn't dramatic. But being their first international student - truly included, not just housed - meant I couldn't stay in my bubble. When they drove me to meet grandparents, when they asked about Kazakh politics over dinner, when they included me like family, I had to fully participate.

I learned that culture isn't in museums. It's in how people organize their days, share work at home, raise children. It's in knowing when efficiency matters and when it doesn't. It's in understanding that Europe isn't one thing, just like there's no single way to be a father.

Now I live in Spain, speak four languages, work in tech with people from everywhere. But I still think about those terrace conversations in Toulouse, about Jérôme fixing things in designer shirts, about the Basque bartender who smiled when I said "kaixo".

Sometimes the deepest lessons come from daily life with people who do things differently and think it's completely normal.

Note: The videos in this post are created from my photos using AI to add movement - an experiment in showing memories as more than still images.