“Ambianceur,” said Martial, pointing at the bags under my eyes and chuckling slightly.

I looked up from my reading, an engrossing treatise on the minutiae involved in dissecting and preserving rat brains. “Pas du tout,” I said, “not at all.”

The word “ambianceur” was first explained to me at last Friday’s apéro, or afternoon cocktail. This is a bi-monthly attempt to make all the scientists and students of the Brain Mind Institute socialize with each other, but like hydrophobic micelles in water, all the labs invariably end up in in their own circles and discuss the weather amongst themselves. Add in a little alcohol, of course, and the circles disperse quite nicely. My French speaking skills — along with Asian glow — peak at about 1 and 1/4 beers, so I dutifully consumed the equivalent amount of wine and set about interrupting as many conversations as I could. When I ran into Martial, he pointed at me, said “ambianceur,” and then gave one of his trademark grins. Then, despite there being other people involved in the conversation, I asked Martial to say the word repeatedly and spell it out, just to make it clear to the others that not only did I have a poor grasp of their native language, I had also a rather fuzzy concept of how to carry on a proper multi-person conversation.

Ambianceur, shockingly, means “one who is drawn to ambiance” (pronounced in a French accent, OM-bee-ON-ce — the more exaggerated and nasal, the better).” Ambiance, in turn, is a slang word meaning “festive atmosphere” or basically, “fun.” According to google, “ambianceur” used most frequently in the hip hop world to describe DJs and their parties.

So my lab thinks I’m a party animal. This does not bode well. In the United States — and in most other countries I can think of — only inanimate objects and the comatose would find reason to envy my sense of initiative when it comes to fun. That I always look hungover when I come to the lab is more of a hygiene issue than a sign of the previous night’s festivities.

Martial, of course, has a completely different idea of what I’ve been up to. “Qu’est-ce que tu as? T’as trop bu hier soir?” “What’s wrong, did you drink too much last night?”

I should have said, “Mon dieu! DID I??”

Instead, I launched into an unnecessarily long explanation of my job as a logistical coordinator for an SAT prep company, along with a detailed description of what the SAT is, how it compares to the French Bac, and why I’m still doing work at night, during the summer, in Switzerland, all in my slow, halting, mispronounced French. His experiments were probably ruined that day because all the bacteria died from boredom.

“Euh…D’accord.” Clearly he was disappointed not to be regaled with stories of magical moments, broken beer bottles, absinthe, and countless women of all nationalities.

There will, of course, be time for all of that eventually. Until then, I’ve contented myself with biking through UNESCO-protected vineyards, taking walks to castles, and spending as much money as I can on wine and food. Actually socializing with non-Americans, I promise, is next on my to-do list.