Where is Bryan?

Host with the Most: The Local Way Paris

2012-02-19T09:01:00.001+01:00

The Local Way Paris—Baguettes & Boulangeries from RPP PRODUCTIONS on Vimeo.

Sometime ago, while just getting my feet wet at the Sorbonne, scared out of my wits, and working for a tour company that paid me in tips, I got an email. A production company in New York was looking for a host for a travel series they wanted to produce about Paris. They heard about me through a series of grapevines and reached out to ask if I’d like to work with them.

The fee? Some meals and the chance to be filmed with all of my clothes on. Already about as down and out as I could get, I said, sure, why not? Fancying myself an Anderson Cooper or Barbara Walters, I met the two producers and things got under way. Plus, I was at the point where I’d do most anything for a free meal. The clothes thing I wasn’t too picky about.

As the filming approached, I realized there were issues here. First off, I was mid-school year and I was so poor that eating vegetarian became a necessity, not a choice. I shouldn’t have been doing free work. Secondly, I was no TV host. My experience in front of the camera was nonexistent and I had no idea what to expect. Thirdly, who the hell was I to host a travel series? Sure, I had some experience, I knew Paris, and more importantly I loved Paris, but a host? Did Diane Sawyer rely on love to get through the news?

I met my cohost Anna, and the camera started to roll. After several laughter-filled days of intense shooting, late night voice-overs, and embarrassingly numerous outtakes, we had completed the task and anxiously awaited the edits. My fears ended up unwarranted and I only blushed on camera for the first five minutes. After that, I delivered time and again a series of Emmy-winning performances of Susan Lucci calibor (more or less).

Producers Amanda and Steve worked to bring all of our rambling shots and botched lines together into one coherent and smartly edited piece that is “The Local Way Paris: Baguettes and Boulangers.”

This is the first in a series of videos that will be coming out dealing with different -- you guessed it -- local aspects of Paris (film, neighborhoods, food, writing, etc.). Also keep an eye out for the gag reels that promise some fun bloopers that I may have or have not intentionally committed….

Enjoy!

On Snow

2012-02-08T00:26:00.003+01:00

Early-birds...

Paris is something special in the snow. And not in the sort of way that makes tourists dream. No tourists want to be in Paris when it snows. It covers up everything they traveled miles to see.

But to live here when it snows. Yes, special. The first time I experienced Parisian snow was as I walked out of my apartment, the boding medieval hospital across the street blurred by falling flakes. Tracks in the ground marked those who had woken up earlier than me to tackle the first snowfall. I made my way towards the Canal, long frozen by the winter chill.

As I felt those first few flurries melt on my face, all sorts of childhood excitations begin to well up from some long forgotten spring. Suddenly I saw myself rushing to the back of the closet to search for my snow pants, screaming to my brother and sister to grab the sleds while I rummage through the bag of gloves. Why could I never find two that matched?

Your childhood self tells you to enjoy it quickly before it melts away. The snow will be there and gone in the blink of an eye, and soon schools will reopen and plows will reign supreme on the streets. Snow is but a fleeting moment as quick as the childhood innocence that loves it so.

But your Parisian self knows better. This is Paris and no one is in a hurry. Not even the snow. In fact, the city is so ill-prepared for snowfall – barring a few bags of salt and communal shovel – that the snow has more than a fighting chance to last the night. As it slowly covers Haussmanian balconies and neoclassic facades, Parisians sleep on, unaware of the soft white blanket that they will awaken to see, and not know how to handle.

Along the Canal, frozen beneath the arching green bridges, the water goes no where. Walking past the tree-lined banks, seagulls camp out on the newly dusted ice, happy to have some cushioning beneath them. No one is really sure why seagulls sit on ice, but we all feel a little better knowing that at least they are sitting on something soft.

Silly gulls...go somewhere warmer!

Everything is slower. Cars roll gently. Pedestrians stroll cautiously. No one is sure if the ambulances can tackle the snow, so no one tempts fate. Sounds seem to disappear, muffled in the accumulations, as the statuesque Wallace fountains cede their trickling public water source to the artic freeze. The snow has captured all of our attention. Even dogs, so often distracted by passing canine rears, are entranced by each white flake that settles and disappears on their little black noses.

My Parisian self takes it all in, strolling along the cobbled banks of the Canal, still chuckling at those seagulls who slowly blend into the ever-whitening background. My inner child urges me to go, to run, to play, because it won’t last. But I remind the child of New York. I think to the midnight snowball fights in the park and the tongues reaching for flakes. So quickly it was all marred by the morning commute and the blackened slush that stained shoes and kept us inside. This moment of purity is rare and must be consumed like a fine vintage, tickling every sense possible.

A lack of snowpants and decent sleds prevents me from enjoying it as I once did, so I place a finger to my inner child’s mouth and I point to the seagulls, to the dog pouncing after snowflakes, and to the children making snowballs. We’re in no hurry here. Paris is going to let us enjoy this.

The snow covers everything, makes it fresh again, and lets us slow down and enjoy, well, everything. Only when it snows can I recapture that innocence of searching for gloves and a hat, but with none of the fear that it will be stolen from me. My adult self walks along the Canal, reconnecting with that inner child, hushing him for just a minute and telling him to slow down, it’ll be OK. We’re in Paris and this snow will melt when it’s ready. But for now, let’s just enjoy it.

And above all, we should continue to wonder why those seagulls don’t look for somewhere warmer to perch.

Things I'm Not Good At

2012-01-29T18:35:00.001+01:00

Simulation of me failing at napping...

Like most parents, my mom and dad always supported me in my endeavors when I was a child. As long as they were appropriate endeavors. I still recall my mother asking me why I didn’t take an interest in things like cars and sports while en route to a piano lesson. I think she was also not-so-secretly critiquing my obsessive collection of Beanie Babies. It was a phase that passed, though hundreds of beanbag animals still haunt my house, hidden away someplace. They’ll be worth money, just wait.

Be it music, school, or faithful adhesion to a plush obsession, I excelled when I put my heart into something. Though as an adult (I laughed, too), I am discovering that I am not good at everything. Suddenly, years of supportive coddling and “yes you can” praise have left poor Bryan with an ego the size of the Hindenburg, with a similar ending when failure strikes. These revelations have come recently, but all too markedly.

1. Saying no has never been a problem when it comes to a drink, chocolate, or an opportunity to advance my burgeoning stardom. Still, I am no good and absolutely incapable of saying no when I want to decline an offer. It usually goes something like this:

“Hey, want to hang out with me sometime?”

“No,” I think, resolutely.

“Yes sure, when’s good for you?” dribbles out of my mouth. I have a fear of disappointing people, of missing a potential opportunity to have a good time even when I know that three hours of boy-talk and complaining about this fantastic country we live in will only irritate my ever-fraying expat nerves. That’s why I always say “yes” to a drink.

2. Napping is an art and I shall never be Picasso. When 3PM rolls around, I would love to turn the lights off, put on my “Sleepy Mix” and spread out on the couch for an hour, carelessly and blissfully unaware of the world around. But then phones vibrate, computers beckon, and I stare at the ceiling wondering when the nap becomes pleasurable. At what point do I start enjoying it? When can I slip into dreamland? Did I blow out that candle? I hope Dave emails me back. What time does the bakery close? I wonder what Sandy is doing.

Then the alarm buzzes. I’ve failed the nap.

3. Saying good-bye to people has never been a gift of mine. I moved to France without so much as bon voyage happy hour. One night I had an early dinner with my family as my mom cried, and then next think I knew I was at Newark about to start a life abroad. You’d be in a hurry if you had to go to Newark.

Looking around my apartment, I now realize that I’m so wretched at saying good-bye that I simply avoid the process in all aspects of life. Is there a reason I have three pairs of Converse with holes in them hanging out on my shoe rack? Yes, I can’t say good-bye. And those stacks of school papers accumulated over two years? Can’t bear to part. And that moldy pumpkin puree I the fridge? Separation issues.

I'm not a hoarded, I just hate good-bye...

Maybe someday I’ll be good at these things, but I embrace my inner failure, and when 3PM rolls around, I’ll just have to stick it out and push through it. Just don’t ask me to hang out in the afternoon, because I didn’t have my nap and you know I can’t say no…

What's, like, in a name?

2012-01-17T11:30:00.000+01:00

My ditz survival pack...the essentials.

While joking with a good friend at the Sorbonne about what we’d name our babies (both parties aware of the joke), I told her I’d name our son Bob. I like this name in French and I thought it would be a funny (note: these are the things Sorbonne students do before class).

She, French, and aghast, said, “No way. We’re not having an American name for our child.” I asked what the problem was with an American name like Bob, or worse, Bryan. I then learned something that I had not known about my name and others like it. Certain American names for boys, according to this girl and other students, are the equivalent of names like Candy and Buffy in the US.

Essentially, to the French, Bryan is not only in the kitchen, but he’s a total ditz.

I argued against this, saying I never felt prejudice because of my name, but she assured me that when French people see my name, they don’t expect much from me. The fact that I was at the Sorbonne helped this enormously, giving me some sort of intellectual boost, so I avoided some of the sting.

But now I wonder if many of my happy interactions in Paris are simply due to the fact that the French feel bad for poor airheaded Bryan. Could it be?

I quickly considered dressing more smartly or perhaps investing in glasses. Maybe get rid of the Chucks and start combing my hair. I didn’t want to give the French any reason to believe I was anything less than a bona fide genius.

But then my future wife-not-to-be continued to tell me that Kevin was also another name associated with ditzy boys, though another friend had previously told me that Kevin was also a name associated with gangsters. I started to lose faith in her, wondering who the real ditz was. Maybe she was playing a fast one on me, but either way I am slightly more aware of avoiding ditzy tenancies these days and I’m still considering those glasses…

Finals at the Sorbonne: To Arms, Protestors, to Arms!

2012-01-11T21:49:00.002+01:00

Coming up on the final semester of my masters at the Sorbonne Nouvelle, I felt empowered. I had successfully completed three semesters of a French higher education program and boy oh boy did I feel accomplished. We students were enriched, hardworking and – I thought – all grown up.

Then came finals time. This week we were taking our end of the semester exams and chaos ensued, per usual. We all showed up to take a communications history test on Tuesday only to find that the professor had sent a proxy to administer the test. Strike 1.

My outline...note lower righthand corner...

Once we all sat down for the two hour test, we began looking at out clocks wondering why we weren’t starting. Finally the proxy handed out paper and began to read the question. Halfway through, most jaws were slightly dropped at the apparently absurdity of the question’s set up. Then said jaws hit the table when the proxy said, “I can’t read the rest…” This was like a press conference where the president’s microphone cuts out just before he’s about to announce a war. It was awkward. Strike 2.

The proxy scrambled to call the professor before running downstairs to the department to ask for help. All the while, we students tapped our feet impatiently. The clock continued moving and time was running out for our session.

Finally, the proxy contacted the professor, found the real tests, and, with just over an hour to go, began handing them out – until a voice in the back rose up. “Monsieur, we only have an hour, do we really have to take the test?” Strike 3.

The next 15 minutes were racked with debate between the students and the proxy. How could we ever take a test in an hour? That’s unheard of in France. I looked at the other American in the class, who, smiling, shrugged her shoulders and mouthed silently, “Well, it’s cheap.” It wasn’t the end of the world. But the others resisted.

The students were excellent cogs in the well-oiled protest machine that is France. Reasons the students proposed for not taking the test:

1. We have another test after, so we can’t stay and spend extra time. (Valid)

2. I can’t write an outline, a first draft, and then a final draft in one hour. (Valid but unnecessary)

3. If we don’t take the test now, we probably won’t have to take it later (Invalid)

4. The professor gets paid to be here, we shouldn’t have to take it (Semi-valid, but look at your tuition bill)

They protested until a frustrated and all-too jet-lagged student who had just stepped off a trans-Atlantic flight tried to talk some sense into the protestors. In the end, the American won (duh) and the students all took the test reluctantly. In less than one hour, the essays were written and students stormed out of the room shaking their heads. Said jet-lagged student now fears guillotining (or equivalent punishment).

“Do you think he’ll be lenient on the grading?” students asked each other in the hallway afterward. No, kids, teachers are unreasonable and superhuman, themselves infallible when it comes to things like giving a proxy the exams. Of course he won’t be lenient or consider the time gaff.

Their fear was cute but altogether disappointing. If this is how scared they are after taking a test under unexpected conditions, I’d pay to see them get reamed by their first boss or miss their first work deadline. Like the proxy said just before the test, life throws you a curveball and you have to make lemonade…or something like that, I'm sure there's a French translation that French students learn...eventually.

Reverse Culture Shock in 5 Hours or Less...

2011-12-27T06:18:00.000+01:00

I returned to America for the first time in a year. The flight from Charles de Gaulle to JFK was a thrill ride. Afraid to fall asleep because of the schizophrenic man next to me (a flight attendant asked me if I wanted to change seats, but I didn’t realize why until too late) I resigned myself to a marathon of movies including Bridesmaids, Two Days in Paris, and that one with Ryan Gosling and Julianne Moore that just wouldn’t end.

Diner breakfast...essential...

Landing in New York late Sunday night, I was all a-giggle, clutching my passport proudly, ready to rush to the diner for breakfast and the bakeries for cupcakes, but the reverse culture shock hit quickly. Within five hours, five things had already made me realize that I wasn’t the same little American that left this place over three years ago…

1. You’re a…student? Usually in Paris when I tell people I’m a student, they are interested. Where? What do you study? Do you like it? When confronted at the passport control, awaiting my reentry stamp, the officer asked what I had been doing for a year.

-“Studying,” I said nonchalantly.

-“That’s what they all say,” he responded.

He continued to grill me, not believing that I was really studying at the Sorbonne, but he stamped my passport anyway and welcomed me back. Sure, plenty of people abuse the system and become “students” for a visa, but I’m not used to this mentality vis-à-vis my friends in Paris who know I really am a student.

2. The metro – I mean, the subway – took forever to arrive. We waited roughly 30 minutes for the A train to arrive before pulling up to the airport’s station loaded with at least two dozen sleeping homeless people. We carefully chose a car that wasn’t doubling as a motel and sat on the train for a good long while before finally arriving in Manhattan. I never thought I’d be pining for the RER B, but at least it’s quicker and more frequent – even if it does smell funky.

3. Stoplights and signs were unmistakably huge. I was in awe of the red hand and green humanoid silhouette that told us when to cross and when to stop. There was no missing your cue as you crossed the street. I forgot about and subsequently appreciated the blinking red lights or countdowns that act as a sort of yellow light for pedestrians. Stoplights are not an integral part of my Parisian experience, but it was just a fun observation.

4. Things have…changed. Walking up 6th Avenue and realizing that over seven years have gone by since I moved to this place, well, it’s not really that incredible. I don’t feel so distanced from this place and six years is really a drop in the bucket as far as time is concerned. In six years, quite a few restaurants have changed hands, new places have opened, new illuminated skyscrapers were popping up. But it’s that fact that in such a small amount of time so much has changed. In Paris, the hospital across the street from me hasn’t changed too much in the past 400 years, and New York doesn’t sit still for a hot minute.

American cupcakes from Butter Lane...

5. I’m a terrible bilingual. Well, that is, if I’m bilingual at all. I can’t seem to hop between my languages as quickly as I’d like to, and code-switching fails ensue. We’ve all been there. “Pardon” pops out after you bump into someone. “Merci” slips out when someone holds a door. And my conversations have been peppered by those all too pretentious pauses of silence when you are translating back into your native language in your head. “I just can’t remember how to say it in English,” I want to say, but that’s no longer cute now that I’ve lived abroad for so long. It’s just kind of obnoxious.

Settled in a few days later, I’m now very well accustomed to the commercial-ridden television, the copious amounts of food, and the general disregard for how one dresses in public. It’s good to be home.

Food truck trend hits Paris, and the results?

2011-12-07T22:17:00.000+01:00

Not the permanent truck, FYI...

I remember walking out of my college dining hall in New York to the sight of a dessert truck, but after limitless ice cream and brownies, I couldn’t even tease the possibility. It was 2008 and little did I know that I would be leaving New York just as the food truck craze would start sweeping the nation. Oh well.

Hunkered down in a Parisian bistro or one of my favorite Asian restaurants, I wasn’t exactly nostalgic for food from a truck, especially not on typically chilly and drizzly Parisian nights. I read about them, I saw that Food Network developed a TV show about them, but I had no connection to them.

Then the buzz started making its way around Paris that a food truck was in business, parking at different places around the city and serving up American style hamburgers. With a French name like Le Camion Qui Fume, literally “The Truck that Smokes” – “The Smoking Truck?” – well I thought I’d see what the fuss was about.

Line cook magic...

I wasn’t expecting much, but when I saw that onion rings were featured on one of the burgers, I did get a little excited. I called up a few friends and we were set to catch the truck Sunday evening at Pont Ephémère were it was parked for the night. Upon arriving, a handful of other excited expats were anxiously awaiting the first round of burgers.

The Americans that operate the truck were finishing up some prep work while welcoming patrons and at 7PM they started taking orders – even though they advertised opening at 6, this left enough time to grab a beer. The prix fixe at 10 euros seems steep for street food, but for a hearty burger, fries, and a table at the adjacent bar, it was quite a deal.

Choosing the burger was a no-brainer for me – obviously I’d take the Barbecue burger with bacon, cheddar, and of course a giant friend onion ring. The Classic burger seemed like a good choice, as was the Bleu with Fourme d’Ambert cheese and a Porto sauce. I was tempted by the Campagne with Gruyere and wild mushrooms but stayed with the Barbecue, given that it was the only option with bacon.

Drooling?

The production was quick as one chef laid out the buns while chef Kristin, a California native, flipped the burgers and piled them high with cheddar cheese. No simple short order cook, Krisin studied at l’Ecole Supérieure de Cuisine Française Ferrandi à Paris. The credentials got me a little more excited. The little kitchen dance that chefs are required to master was even more difficult in the tiny truck, and all the more enjoyable to watch as they tossed ingredients in place while even smiling for a photo.

We did have to wait a bit, though fortunately there the kitchen fireworks to mesmerize us. Finally it was time to leave the rain and head inside the adjacent Pont Ephémère bar and bite into the burger. It’s as simple as this: I’ve never had a burger that delicious in Paris. Despite not asking how we’d like our meat cooked, the result was perfect. You can dissect it all you want, but the melting of all of the fantastic ingredients in my mouth was entirely worth the wait.

The current truck is, according to the owner, a prototype and will be upgraded eventually. Check their website for times and locations across Paris.

Will I become a Le Camion Qui Fume junkie? It all depends on how close they’re willing to park by my home…

Check out that stage...

Lowering Expectations at the Sorbonne...

2011-11-28T18:01:00.000+01:00

“In

America

,” she said, “they think that English is the only language.” I so visibly rolled my eyes in disgust that the professor looked at me, the only American in the class, and said, “But I’m not counting you.”

Thanks, but it was too late to matter.

It was another day at the Sorbonne Nouvelle. We were discussing our research projects and the topic of language and translations came up, a favorite weekly topic. Apparently everyone was immediately an expert in American culture and they started criticizing the way Americans watch only English films or else foreign films dubbed in English.

That’s when professor, a fiery-eyed French woman in her 50s or 60s, dropped the stereotype bomb. Not only was it misplaced in a class with quite a few foreign students but it was followed with the clear-as-mud reasoning that is emblematic of these kinds of situations. “The numbers speak,” she said. “Only 10% of Americans have passports.” Suddenly not traveling translates to being ignorant of other languages. Is there a hint of truth? Maybe. Is it fair reasoning in a masters-level program at the Sorbonne? Probably not…

Far from a flag-waving American, I do get patriotic when I need to, especially when someone who is in charge of educating starts incorrectly generalizing and representing me. And for her to tell me that, “Oh je vous exclure,” because I disprove her argument is irresponsible and quite frankly embarrassing. Can you tell I was peeved?

I can take American criticism at dinner parties when someone jabs our politics or our culture (or lack-thereof as I’m so often reminded). It’s all in good fun, usually, and if not, I’ll get over it. I still have an American passport at the end of the day and no one can take that away from me. But it’s tough to attend a world-renown school like the Sorbonne and have to listen to a professor make sweeping generalizations about the US – especially after telling us she spent a lot of time in Canada. It sucks a lot of the credibility that we’re already fighting for in an institution that lacks organizations and where even the professors don’t show up for class.

As class ended, a Romanian student, who I’ve known since last year, commiserated with me, expressing similar surprise at the professor’s wanton lack of tact in the matter. She put things into perspective for me, at least. “I don’t tell them I’m Romanian,” she said, “it’s even worse.”

Still, if this is what students can learn in a masters program, I can only imagine what it’s like for younger more impressionable students…

Ode to an Oven...

2011-11-21T08:10:00.000+01:00

This is my ode...

When people look at you, my friend, they call you names. “Toaster oven.” “E-Z Bake knock-off.” It pains me. I know what you really are. Despite your diminutive appearance, you are, honestly, and truly, an oven.

You are the most valuable asset in my pint-sized kitchen, a true force to be reckoned with. It is you who roasts my chicken and vegetables. It is you who bakes dozens of cupcakes and cookies for hours on end without complaining or shorting the circuit. It is you who cooks and heats an entire Thanksgiving feast for five without one cold bite of stuffing or raw Brussels sprout.

I know this, yet so rarely do I tell you how much I appreciate you. Such treatment is unworthy of an appliance so great that I’d sooner call you an industrial marvel, a stroke of pure engineering genius.

Yet you remain surprisingly humble and, for whatever reason, entirely silent in the face of utter and wanton abuse. I splatter grease or pumpkin bread batter all over you without apologizing. You do not complain. I leave you on with no food inside of you, needlessly heating your precious innards. You do not complain. In the three years that I’ve had you I never properly cleaned your interior. You do not complain.

So regal...

Where does your strength come from, little oven? It cannot be that simple cord plugged into the wall, for if your courage and patience were a mere manipulation of electrical current, we all would live with our fingers thrust into such sockets. No, yours is a true gift that comes from your food-encrusted interior, enriched with every batch of brownies or olive oil-covered parsnips that I entrust to you.

You make me a better cook. Dare I say, you make me a better man?

So oven, as I look up to you through the archway in my punitively small kitchen, peering down at me from your perch over-looking the refrigerator and the hotplates, mere plebeians to your patrician and regal being, I offer you this ode. I will always cherish you for the cakes you bake and for the meat that you roast.

For they say love is the secret ingredient in any dish, and, dear oven, I know our love courses through every moist slice of banana cake and in each carrot you make tender.

Time Off at the Sorbonne...

2011-11-13T12:32:00.001+01:00

Clearly occupied in class...

One month into my second year of the masters program at the Sorbonne Nouvelle and we’ve already had one week of vacation and two long holiday weekends. Still, professors haven’t hesitated from taking much needed time away from the grueling pace of French education. Can we chalk this up to a cultural difference?

Thursday my three classmates and I were sitting patiently in room 449 waiting for our linguistics professor who had already cancelled one class the week before in addition to failing to attend the second class – with no warning. Class was to start at 3PM. The four of us discussed our thesis projects and talked about our iPhones while fiddling with text messages and emails.

Ten minutes passed and the professor was still not there.

We continued waiting, while we talked about our various backgrounds. One French girl moving to Turkey next year. One Chinese girl who’s been around the world. One half French half Italian student who dresses like every day is a Marc Jacobs show.

Twenty minutes passed. No professor.

I ventured to the department to see if the professor was coming or not. I knocked. No answer. I called the desk, hearing the phone ring inside. No answer. I ran back upstairs.

“He likes Americans, you write him an email,” the French girl told me. After five more minutes of arguing over which words to use and how properly to address a professor in writing, we hammered out an email asking if class was going to happen in the future and to let the professor know that cancelling class three out of four times was semi-unprofessional, or at least unappreciated. We pushed send.

Thirty-five minutes later, we departed, wishing each other a good weekend.

Killing time instead of learning...

Far from upset, I was glad to have the extra time to talk with my classmates, even if I wasn’t receiving the academic education I was gunning for. A cultural one would do. I tried to ration it out; imaging the professor was on some linguistic venture in the Outback, fighting off kangaroos while trying to research a lost aboriginal dialect.

He thought I was Australian, after all, clearly an expert in the field of language.

When the 3PM class was canceled, again, I tried not to take it to hard. This is still the Sorbonne, a world renowned institution of higher education that strives to educate students in the ever-changing realm of communications studies and practices by hiring the most professional and expert players in the field.

At 4:53PM, an email came from the communication department’s secretary. “We’re just reminding you that your professor is absent today, so there won’t be class at 3PM.”

Yup, experts.

We May Be Rushing Things...Parsnips and Other Fun

2011-11-07T08:43:00.000+01:00

There are certain things that make a man happy. Beer. Hunting. Football. Ladies that dance provocatively and make a kick-ass risotto. Right?

This week, I discovered three more things that have made me giddy with glee. Out of context, like, they are not funny. Situated in front of an expat in Paris, they are things that exude excitement, moving a certain little American boy to near tears of joy. Or maybe it’s just me…

Root veggies galore...

1. American Christmas radio: I know, “It’s too early.” You can all say that. You are all wrong. When I discovered that my childhood radio station out of Philadelphia, B101.1, was already playing nonstop Christmas tunes and that I could listen to it online, I lost it. The final straw was when the station played the Muppet’s rendition of the “12 Days of Christmas.”

All of the excitement of a younger me waking up Christmas morning with my footie pajamas, racing to the tree to tear open presents as I shrieked with excitement – well, it was just good to feel 19 again.

2. Root vegetables: So often do root vegetables go unnoticed. We buy them. We eat them. But how often do we celebrate them? After a Skype date with a good friend from home, we both rejoiced over Thanksgiving and the proliferation of roasted root vegetables. I looked in my refrigerator and found none. Riding off the high of thinking of Thanksgiving, a holiday devoted to an orgy of food and pie, I spent Sunday morning at the Aligre market, my favorite, to stock up on some holiday-inspired veggies.

I bought some carrots, I kept some beets, I groped the gourds, and then I saw them – the root vegetable that I have been craving. Parsnips. One kilo of beautiful tubers went in my bag and my smile lit up the entire market.

3. Vanilla-scented candles and other assorted Christmas decorations: Did you say, “It’s too early?” And didn’t I tell you, “Shut up?” This weekend brought sheer holiday bliss even if the temperatures aren’t even worthy of a scarf. I headed to Belleville with a friend to explore the most time-honored Parisian Christmas tradition – purchasing decorations in Paris’ Chinese bazaar markets.

Too early? Duh, no...

Nothing screams Christmas more than a feathered boa or a silver-painted masquerade mask. Mixed among the glass balls, snow globes, garlands and Santas were charming scented candles. Vanilla, cinnamon, and of course the most holiday-of-holiday scents, cherry. Feeling that cherry would inspire too much cheer, I opted for vanilla and cinnamon and lit one while at home, hanging my lights – just for practice, you know, to see how they’ll look later…

Paris Pastry Goes Live!

2011-11-03T17:57:00.000+01:00

After months of researching and updating and – oh boy – tasting the many chocolate, pastry, and ice cream shops in Paris, the iPhone application is finished. David and Heather’s mastermind project, Paris Pastry, is now available on iTunes.

The app is a handy little tool to find what are arguably (but really not arguably) the best pastry places in town among a modest list of 300 shops, with descriptions written by pastry chef and blogger David Lebovitz. After visiting most of them, I must say the experience has made me more of a sweets aficionado than I ever thought I’d be.

During the photographing process, I joined David and Heather on a whirlwind tour of the city meeting all sorts of sweet-obsessed Parisians and sampling a trove of diabetes-inducing products. I popped Lactaid pills like crazy as a gauntlet of gelato, cream-stuffed éclairs, and milky hot chocolate filled our days. David had his camera, Heather had her notebook and the fast cash for emergency pastries.

And where did Bryan fit in? Well if you’ve ever been to Ladurée, you know how hard it is take a photo of even the simplest macaron. So my job was to charm the vendors and bakers into letting us take photos of their goods without always buying one – unless I was hungry, of course. After a few jokes and explanations of what were doing, I usually gave David the green light to snap a few photos – if he hadn’t sneakily done so already as I distracted the vendors. It was good teamwork.

Forgetting how small Paris is, I ran into some of these sweet faces recently. While at the Salon du Chocolat in October, a woman at one of the stalls looked remarkably familiar, and so I asked if we knew each other. Sure enough she had given me samples at the Bon Marché from her shop Comptoir du Cacao. Since, clearly, we were best friends, she asked if my friends and I wanted to sample something that no one else had tasted yet.

What a silly question.

"Private" tasting at the Salon du Chocolat

The tasting that followed – salted caramel spread, homemade chocolate hazelnut paste, and a curry-covered chocolate bar – were just another prize for all of the spreadsheet madness that ensued over the past months. Good thing we included her store in the app.

I think we’ll need to do an update soon to Paris Pastry and make sure that all of the pastries are still as good as they were this summer when we tasted them…

Check out the Paris Pastry app on iTunes

Pumpkin and Spice and Everything Nice...

2011-10-25T12:40:00.002+02:00

The crisp fall air is settling over Paris as leaves flutter to the ground. Brown leather boots are again fashionable as I have to decide excitedly between sweaters and scarves. With so many familiar sensations, it’s the smells of autumn that I am most excited about this October.

At home in Pennsylvania, fall was a time for a lot of things. Haunted hayrides and corn mazes were among them. Crackling bonfires with apple cider and roasting marshmallows were the norm on Friday nights. After pumpkin picking, we’d drive by lakes framed by trees in hues of reds, oranges, and yellows, arriving home to a house perfumed with some sort of autumn-inspired candle – usually a pumpkin one. Mom loves candles.

In college, I hunted high and low for the perfect pumpkin-scented candle with just enough spice and warmth to remind me of the scenic October landscapes in Bucks County. Sometimes I wonder how I kept my grades up having spent so much time running from store to store.

One day on my way back from my magazine internship, I found the candle, excitedly skipping down Park Ave. with an overpriced jar of nostalgic pumpkin-infused wax. Happiness.

Here in Paris, well, let’s just say that Starbucks doesn’t even sell the pumpkin-spiced latte. You see what I’m up against. The smells of fall are less familiar, but are slowly growing on me. At night I open the window and I smell my neighbors somewhere feeding a fire in their fireplace – always surprising in an urban landscape. Soon the spices and sweetness of mulled wine will waft by Notre Dame. Dead leaves scattered across the Canal have their own distinct, yet oddly inspiring autumn scent, if you can imagine.

But you’d be kidding yourself if you thought I’d spend the fall season – or pre-Christmas, as I call it – without a dose of pumpkin permeating my apartment. Through a carefully planned and wildly secretive system of exports and imports (read: the post office), I manage to get my fix of Yankee candles. They come each year in an envelope that I save and periodically sniff, savoring every last whiff of autumn olfactory pleasure.

Just a few days ago I lit the first of a series of candles that should get me through the rest of the year. As my apartment fills with the familiar scents of autumn, I’ll count down the days until I can smell the real thing in Bucks County.

Dog Days of Autumn: Puppy Fever...

2011-10-21T11:16:00.000+02:00

While cat-sitting for a friend this week, I did a little soul-searching. Do I really want a pet? The question is a recurrent one, prompting discussions with friends including Youtube clips of adorable puppies and cats talking to each other. It’s a sickness; one that I think I need to cure soon.

Maybe it's time for a real animal...

The dog-cat debate is a heated one. I’ve considered other contenders – birds, gerbils, monkeys, panted-donkeys, and living teddy bears – but in the end I think the dog wins out. I know I said I wanted a kitten, and my backtracking may seem a bit hypocritical, but I’ve been watching a lot of political debates lately so I don’t feel that guilty.

I was in Uniqlo the other day waiting in line to buy socks, something I like to do – already a good sign for a dog owner – and I saw the most adorable terrier pulling at his owner’s leash. I was on the verge of walking up to the man and asking him what the dog’s breed was (Parson Russel, I already knew) before punching him in the face and running off with the dog, leaving the socks behind.

If I’d sacrificed reasonably-priced socks for a puppy, then you know I’m being genuine.

Stalker photos of dogs in metro...a sign?

Cat-sitting has re-opened my eyes to what I really want. This week’s cat, Jazz, much like the previously-mentioned Cali, is adorable. He likes a little bit of affection, he’ll play with me, and then he’ll vomit on the floor before hiding under the bed grumbling. I can’t speak cat, not well at least, but I’m pretty sure he’s telling me in his British accent to get out of the house because he’s tired of me. Cats always speak in British accents.

Dogs won’t do that. First off, they have American accents, really cute ones. A dog, I know, will drag me out of bed at 7AM in the dead of an icy February morning to go pee, but a dog will also sit at a café with me, go to the market with me, rush to welcome me when I come home and never get bored of me. A dog will race me up the stairs to my fifth floor apartment, will beg for scraps at the table, will sit with me along the Canal as I pretend to read a book but really watch the tourist boats float by slowly.

Maybe I’ll flip flop again, but this fall, puppy fever has hit. I’m taking applications for babysitters for next summer in case I ever need one, but I can’t imagine wanting to go anywhere where little [insert name here] will not be allowed. Oh yea, then there’s the business of a name…so many details…

The New Sorbonne: First Week of School

2011-10-14T10:52:00.000+02:00

Busy at the Sorbonne...

Cram 20 French students in a tiny room with inadequate chairs, terrible acoustics, and a professor who can’t talk about Italian Renaissance art while sweating and competing with yapping students in the hallway and what do you get? The Sorbonne.

Conditions seem ripe for another May ‘68 protest, but fortunately we’re all too focused on our iPhones during class to motivate ourselves. Vive multitasking.

It’s back-to-school time for my program, a communications masters at the University of Paris III, fondly known as Sorbonne Nouvelle, or New Sorbonne. I guess in the 70s it did come off as new compared to the beautiful older part of the school on the other side of the Latin Quarter.

Conditions are on par at best and professors are all too ready to cancel class. I commiserated with a fellow American who happened to be in one of my classes, and our capitalistic upbringing set in: “At least it’s cheap.” You really do get what you pay for. We just kept smiling through the class, even though neither of us quite knew what the objectives were. This was the Sorbonne, after all. All we learned that class was that the professor apologized for sweating.

That said, among the long classes that leave me contemplating a career in copybook illustration or wondering how some of these students feed themselves let alone conduct research, there are a few moments that make it all worth it.

Top-notch professors who are seriously passionate about their work, liberty to pursue your own interests for the thesis, and 3-euro 3-course meals at the university restaurant balance the chaos of the Parisian public education system.

Back to the books...

It’s amazing to think that one day I’ll exit the Sorbonne with a degree and absolutely no debt incurred during my years of study, while living in a major world capital. And I’ll have eaten more than my share of chicken thighs and string beans for the price of a song – or like, three songs on iTunes. 0010

A Tale of Two (Cupcake) Cities...

2011-10-04T23:22:00.001+02:00

Some cupcakes for the Camp...

When I first went to New York for college orientation, there were the typical events: ice breakers, class scheduling, new friends, and of course the obligatory trip to Magnolia’s Bakery, a minor institution in the West Village at the time. The pilgrimage down Bleecker Street was the first of many that I’d make for the beloved cupcake, a childhood treat that I was tasting in a whole new light. Little did I know what I had gotten myself into.

Moving to Paris meant leaving behind New York, Magnolia’s, and the flood of other cupcake boutiques that had begun to open as the trend boomed. But Paris was not without its share of butter, sugar, and vanilla. Cupcakes weren’t exclusively a New York item, and in 2010, fancying myself a journalist, I began a quest to interview the cupcake bakers of the City of Light, an endeavor that brought me to the likes of Alisa Morov, Synie Georgulas, and Cat Beurnier.

After the article didn’t get picked up by any papers – favoring instead a less comprehensive albeit adorable article, but I take no offense – Cat emailed to ask me what I thought about a new idea in Paris. She wanted to take cupcakes and make them social, to build a community, and to raise money for charity. Riding on the coattails of the successful San Francisco-based Cupcake Camp, a derivative of the Bar Camp model, she asked me to organize it with her. The fateful February 25th email read: “Okay I may be going out on a limb here, especially since I know you are working on so many different things but I wonder if you wouldn't want to come on-board as an official co-organizer?”

Hard at work with friends...

As a young expat with few friends, the prospect of building a community around cake was a no brainer. The answer was yes. After a grueling inaugural event in the summer of 2010, Cupcake Camp Paris was back this past Sunday, the second edition was bigger and better than we could have ever imagined. Along with our third organizer Nicolette, another cupcake enthusiast, well over 400 people descended on Le Comptoir Général by the Canal to purchase, taste, and share over 2200 cupcakes.

Inside at Cupcake Camp Paris 2011...

Between the contests, the prizes, and the sheer number of adorably decorated cupcakes, the two hours passed like lightning. It was a whirlwind of English and French-speaking cupcake lovers, new faces, people I had only ever conversed with by email, and a slew of devoted friends who lent a helping a hand during the entire day. That young expat a year ago without a community suddenly found himself surrounded by one – even if they were hopped up on sugar.

By the end, people were still walking in from the street, asking if they could buy that last salted caramel cupcake or if there were any chocolate ones left. Participants lined the Canal with their white boxes full of cupcakes, enjoying the last rays of the late summer sun.

Once the crowd left and the clean up crew came in, Cat, Nicolette and I shared a glass of beer at the end in the now-empty venue. We had raised roughly 5000 euros for the Make a Wish Foundation, money that would go towards fulfilling the dreams of terminally ill children. Community. Charity. Cupcakes. Let’s do it again sometime, shall we?

Familiar Faces, Less Familiar Names

2011-09-22T14:28:00.001+02:00

Paris is getting smaller. It’s getting the point where I start running into familiar faces. Everywhere. The problem with familiar faces is that the names that go with those faces aren’t always as memorable.

Everyone should have to wear one...with or without correct spelling...

I’ve encountered several uncomfortable situations lately where I’ve run into someone and I couldn’t remember their name. Clearly, however, the other person went in for the bise and I knew that we must be close. That was Fiona’s fried, right? Or was it the person at Erica’s party? Or was that Melanie’s classmate? In any case, I fake it, ask how they are doing, and make it away without anyone being any wiser to my ignorance.

The problem, sadly, is when I’m not alone and I meet someone. The other day, on the rue du roi de Sicile, with my friend Genevieve, I saw a guy at a café that I knew. He stood up from his table and flagged me down. An introduction was imminent.

“Hi, ca va?” he asked.

“Heeey, oui et toi?” I responded. When I draw out my hello like that, it’s a surefire indication that, indeed, I have forgotten your name. Then there was that pivotal moment.

"Here is my friend Genevieve,” and they shake hands. And then, nothing. Normally it’s at this part that he would say, “Hi, I am John, or Bob, or Pierre,” and I would be saved. But no. Nothing.

Awkward.

We stood there, asking about our friend that I remembered we had in common, and then Genevieve and I went on our way. But the damage was done. The next time we see each other at a party, he’ll know I forgot his name, that he’s not part of the 150 individuals that the human brain can remember.

There must be some strategies to avoid this uncomfortable situation.

1. If they are French, just ask them how they pronounce their last name again, since no one expects an Anglophone to remember French last names. Then you can call them Madame or Monsieur last name for the duration of the icky conversation. It comes off as cute with an American accent.

2. If they are American or English, a simple “buddy” or “chica” will suffice, if you can pull it off adorably.

3. Cut your losses and don’t introduce your friend when you’re with someone. Let the other person take the high road and introduce him or herself to your friend, making you look rude for not initiating an introduction. But at least you won’t look like an idiot for not remembering their name. Weigh your own values – I’d rather be smart than polite.

4. Find a common topic and attack. Talk immediately about a mutual friend, a shared experience, a class you took together, anything to circumvent any possibility of addressing them by name.

5. Call them by the wrong name while introducing them to your friend and then act really apologetic. It’s much easier to play it off if you say that you mixed up their name with that other friend who was at the party. This is much less offensive than forgetting them altogether. And let’s face it, none of us can run the risk of losing friends on Facebook these days. Too bad it’s not called Namebook...

Bakery Bouncer: Just Another Tick on the CV...

2011-09-19T22:10:00.001+02:00

Totally bouncer material...

My new friend Madeleine told me that I was a very impressive videur. I detected no sarcasm as I crossed my arms and puffed up my chest. I supposed that I could have passed for a threatening videur, or bouncer, like in a club. Well, if the club was for 11 year old girls…

During the Journée de la Patrimoine this past Sunday, my local baker asked me to help out since, for the first time, Du Pain et des Idées was opening its doors during the celebration to hold talks about their famous ceiling, a sort of landmark that rarely gets any attention during the week when delicious pastries and bread line the counters. But this Sunday, with no pastries in site, the focus was all on the ceiling with a member from the local historical society giving presentations.

Snore, I know. Instead of attending the talk, I, along with local mother and deliciously-named Parisian, Madeleine, stood at the door taking tickets and making sure that too many people did not enter the extremely popular talks about the bakery. Imagine it, little old me and an equally unintimidating Frenchwoman acting as bakery bouncers. Sweet deal, right?

Things got heated as people showed up without tickets – which were distributed immediately that morning – and I did my best to tell old local women and families that have come from afar that, unfortunately, it would not be possible to attend the talks. As disappointment ran across their face, Madeleine stepped in and played it cool, saying sorry but there are more things down the street. We were a good team.

Their "Pain des Amis".

We didn’t get to select people based on their shoes or overall style, and we didn’t get to throw anyone out because they got too drunk on history. We did have to chase away a local woman who started to râler because the bread at this particular bakery was pretentiously overpriced, in her estimate. By the looks of her shoes though, I imagine that the prices weren’t an issue for her. Bouncers can tell these things.

By the final presentation, the line had grown impatiently long, and like any good bouncers would, we crammed every last person into the bakery, well beyond capacity, and walked away. Fire hazards don’t exist in Paris. I suspected that several people were standing literally on top of other peoples’ shoulders, but in the end, that’s a great way to get even closer to the ceiling, right.

And so ended my day as a videur. I’ve learned how to handle French crowds peacefully, quelling senior citizens and making sure children don’t get out of hand. It’s not a skill that just anyone can do, and one day, when I’m about 200 pounds heavier with a shaved head and a pair of opaque black sunglasses, I think I’ll be ready to try my talents bouncing on the Champs Elysées. Just you wait…

This is what people should really be waiting in line for, yet there is no bouncer when they sell them...

Putting Meat on Them Bones...

2011-09-14T08:30:00.000+02:00

There's the beef...

There’s no secret to my new diet. All it requires is a trip to my local butcher in Belleville. My new diet includes meat. And lots of it.

I’m trying to regain the weight that three years of biking, tour guiding, and hiking my groceries up five flights of stairs has stolen from me. I can hear the, “Oh shut up” coming from women across the English-speaking community, but let me explain. I have always shied away from costly animal protein, treating myself sparingly to chicken or beef from the grocery store and opting for beans and eggs instead. A student budget has an effect on a person, from the holes in his shoes, the frequency of shaving, and the size of his waist. But now, instead of buying a new belt, I’ve decided to invest in chicken breasts, fresh and cheap from cleaver wielders in Belleville.

I was always intimidated by the butcher. Engaging in a French activity beyond “Hello, please, and thank you” has always been daunting for me, but with three years under my ever-loosening belt, my confidence is at a peak. Be it the tax collectors, professors, or butchers in blood-soaked aprons, I’m prepared to confront them.

Obviously I'd fry the chicken...

In her book, Lunch in Paris, Elizabeth Bard details the often confusing protocol required at the butcher. “There is something of the operating theater about the place: bright white light, spotless metal, and exposed flesh,” she writes. It’s frightful, at first.

You need to choose your meat, let them know if you want it cleaned, then pay for the goods at a separate counter before picking up the bag on your way out. Intuitive? Not at all. Easy? Well, once you read Bard’s book, yea. Although unlike Bard, none of my butchers look like Matt Dillon, and I have therefore not developed a crush on any of them. Yet.

Lightly battered, of course...

After some market research, I realized that the meat in Belleville was cheaper and probably fresher than what I was buying in Monoprix and Franprix, so I decided to take the plunge. Now, I’m a regular. At least twice a week I stroll up rue de Belleville to the same butcher and order a few chicken breasts, maybe some ground beef, and I’ve even noticed that the workers are no longer giving me the pieces with the grotesque bones attacked between the two breasts, even though I get a sick pleasure out of cutting through them. Now they offer to clean the meat, without me asking. Most importantly, I always get the friendly, “Voilà, chef,” at the end, a sort of, “Here you go boss” that feels welcoming and personal, even if they say it to plenty of other customers.

Along with the bakery and the produce market, the butcher has become a staple of my Parisian routine. I’m one horizontally striped shirt and a Lucky Strike away from becoming a major Parisian cliché, but I think I’m OK with that, as long as my pants fit.

Cupcake Camp Paris 2011 is COMING

2011-09-04T11:22:00.001+02:00

Our official poster...

I am proud to announce that we are hosting the second annual Cupcake Camp Paris on October 2^nd, 2011 in the City of Light. The event will take place at Le Comptoir Général in the 10^th arrondissement, along the Canal St-Martin.

Now the question follows, what IS Cupcake Camp? The childish little cakes have quickly become the new food trend over the past few years and Ariel Waldman decided to host an event a few years ago in California to celebrate the now-famous cupcake. The event sparked Cupcake Camps around the world, from Bombay and London to New York and now Paris. People get together to share recipes, hold contests, and enjoy the baking prowess of other cupcake fanatics.

Along with Cat Beurnier, I helped launch Paris’s first Cupcake Camp July 4, 2010 and this year with Nicollete van der Doe we’re happy to bring the second edition to cupcake-hungry Parisians.

The event is a day where amateur bakers can bring their cupcakes to the table to share with other cupcake enthusiasts. Participants who attend the event can purchase the cupcakes as well as enter raffles for various baking-themed prizes that have been graciously donated by our many sponsors. All proceeds from the event will be donated to a charity that is very near to us, the Make a Wish Foundation, which offers sick children the chance to fulfill their dreams.

Cupcakes, cupcakes everywhere...

We are still hungry for more bakers, so spread the word and get your whisks ready. You can register your cupcakes on our blog here and you can RSVP for the event on Facebook here. The public can enter freely but the cupcakes are what will raise the money for our charity.

I hope to see you all there on October 2^nd, and come hungry!

Embracing Student Life -- La Rentrée

2011-09-02T10:24:00.001+02:00

Back to school shopping...

For many French students, the rentrée is upon us, the return from a month of sun-soaked beaches and exotic getaways. Instead of suntan lotion and salt water, the nostalgia-inducing smell of freshly sharpened pencils and new erasers fills the air as school kids trade in their teenybopper magazines for textbooks and Victor Hugo.

Freakishly, my program at the Sorbonne doesn’t start until October, so I get another month of Tiger Beat, but I can still sense the back-to-school mayhem. It’s a snap back into reality that, “Hey, Bryan, you’re a student, too.” Gone is my summer of traipsing around Italy and picnicking in the Butte Chaumont. Fortunately, the student life isn’t all bad in Paris. I’ve realized that I’ve adopted a few habits that, at my age, can only be justified by having a student ID card. Being a student can erase all sorts of sins – sins that I’m in no rush to have forgiven.

For example, only as a student can I justify drinking wine out of mugs and water out of old juice bottles. Normal adults, at my age, with their jobs and incomes usually invest in wine glasses and water goblets. I have some wine glasses, with the Ikea price stickers still attached. I’m in no rush to use (read: break) them. And water glasses in Paris are always so tiny, so I opt for the liter glass bottle that once contained orange juice. Not only is it good for the environment to reuse it, but it’s keeping my kidney’s working fulltime. Don’t get lazy on me, guys.

It may be a hipster New York thing, but only as a student can I get away with wearing Converse with holes in them in Paris. Normally Parisians sport their spankin’ new Chucks in all different colors. I sport an array of colors with a little extra show of sock through various holes around the edges. I feel this gives me a vintage-he’s-too-busy-studying look that only a student can pull off.

Hey, they still work...

By a certain age, it’s probably appropriate to own a desk. Only as a student can I still do my homework consistently from the comfort of my futon and a 4 euro Ikea coffee table. Who needs good posture when you’re young, poor, and learning? If I need to spread out books and notes, I simply move to the floor.

Knowing how to malnourish yourself is a staple of student life, so it’s only as a student in Paris, a city so full of amazing food, that I can justifiably own more than one kind of peanut butter. Eating peanut butter is as much a hallmark of student life as suffering a hangover and procrastinating on a paper. I embrace it. Not one jar. Not two jars. But there are no less than three jars of PB at any time chez moi.

And that's not all of it...

I don’t own a ping pong table. Still, as a student, it is perfectly acceptable, if not mandatory, to have ping pong balls on hand at all time. One never knows when my pals from school will come over with some brewskies to play a rousing game of beer pong, and of course, I need to be prepared (note: package in photo never opened).

Well, I guess it’s time to get back to Tiger Beat...

Peppermills: Not All They're Cracked Up to Be

2011-08-29T20:31:00.000+02:00

Mortar, meet pestle...

I don’t own a peppermill. I mean, I did, but then I broke it when I dropped it not once, but twice in my tiny kitchen. It was a gift from my brother – one of the only thoughtful ones he has produced – from Williams-Sonoma, a clear, glass mill that cracked some wonderful black pepper into every sauce, soup, and pasta that I cooked. We were pretty good friends.

Once I dropped it, breaking it beyond repair, I was lost. Shattered bits of glass mixed with half cracked peppercorns and I knew that life would never be the same. How would I ever crack fresh pepper again? I tried buying pre-ground stuff. No good. I priced out peppermills at the store. They were way out of my student budget.

I looked around my kitchen, carefully eyeing my options. There it was: my mortar and pestle. I took the peppercorns and started to smash, grind, and pummel them into a fine powder fit to coat any chicken breast steak. Instead of a few quick turns of the peppermill, I now spent around ten minutes working my upper body ragged to obliterate the tiny black grains that shoot all over, falling into every crevice in my kitchen. It felt wrong, but it felt good.

I told a French café owner one day, admiring her peppermills, that I didn’t own one, that I used a mortar and pestle to grind my pepper. I said it was fun. She looked me in the eye and said, “C’est pas vrai. C’est pas drôle.” She didn’t agree. She wrapped one up and told me to take it, handing it to me as if she were giving a starving refugee a loaf of bread. I was touched and excited until, stupidly, I left the gift in the café. I’d be a terrible starving refugee.

Adieu, old friend...

So like some sort of ancient dunce, I still use the mortar, but there’s something refreshing about it. Maybe it’s the stress release of attacking hundreds of tiny black pepper grains. Maybe it’s the extra care and effort put into every savory dish I cook. Maybe it’s the Parisian martyrdom that I get to feel because I, unlike everyone else, have to hand-grind my own paper. Imagine?

Doing things the hard way, well, frankly, it’s not always bad. Technology has helped me in many ways that I accept. Sure, I prefer typing to writing on paper. And of course the wheel is a great invention that I’d sooner not live without. I sure do love socializing online instead of – Lord knows – actually having to talk to people.

But peppermills, you know, I think they’re a bit extravagant. It’s one form of technology that I’m OK living without for the moment. When I go home and realize that my mother has a peppermill that not only grinds the corns electrically, but that shines light on what is being peppered, I’m left awestruck. A real cook needs no light shone on that which must be peppered. It’s irreverent.

No more stress...

Don't you feel bad for me?

I’ll stick with my mortar and pestle and make a fool of myself during dinner parties as guests wait impatiently for freshly ground pepper. I’m going back to the basics, and if it’s good enough for cavemen and crystal meth makers, well, it’s good enough for me.

The Vacation Post-Partum...

2011-08-22T02:43:00.001+02:00

I'm trying...

After a week in Italy, traipsing along the Amalfi Coast, eating pizza in Naples, and tanning in Capri, who can blame a guy for lacking the motivation to return to the real world? So far, after one full day of being home, this is as far as I got on my "To Do List" and I'm not ashamed. I probably need some motivation, but it will come once everyone starts returning from les vacances and Paris is alive again.

There are plenty of things to anticipate. The fall will arrive in a month or so. My favorite bakery will open back up and I can indulge in the best escargot pistache in town. School will start up again before we know it.

But something tells me that it will be hard to forget the plunging seaside cliffs and umbrella-covered beaches of Italy, the never-ending gelato, and the seaside Camparis that filled a week of wonderment.

Just some gelato...one of many...

Just some typical views...

Coming up, a recap of "Italy does it better than France," but I bet you can already guess what a few of them are...

A Summer Fling All'italiano

2011-08-06T20:30:00.002+02:00

Cheating with Italy? Could be a clue...

It’s August and, as part of Parisian protocol, I’m supposed to leave the city. At the end of every summer, the Parisians flock elsewhere – the Atlantic coast, the Riviera, Italy, Tunisia, New York, wherever they can to get away from the City of Light that slowly but surely is dimmed by an influx of European and North American tourists doing the reverse trajectory. I resisted baselessly, asserting to stay in the city that I loved during a month when my favorite bakery is closed, when most of my friends are gone, and when the heat – usually – turns my apartment into a sleepless sweaty box that smells primarily of onions and fabric softener.

True love knows no bounds.

Slowly but surely, a friend and I began to discuss the urge to travel. The desires heightened with each beer that we finished. We both were staying in Paris for August, but suddenly we both wanted to go to Pompeii. We both found cheap tickets to Rome. We both wanted to eat gelato every day for every meal and then all of the sudden – oops – we had planned a trip to Italy. Both of us, despite our initial inclination to stay in Paris, traded in our homely stay-cation for a sultry vacation, and with less than a week before heading out, I couldn’t be happier that we did.

Only Italian cheaters make meatballs...mamma mia...

While I feel like I am in an eternal honeymoon phase with Paris, constantly happy to be here and rarely eager to leave, I know that this sensation is fragile and fickle. At any moment I could snap, immediately wishing I were elsewhere. I’m hitting the “refresh” button preemptively to ward off any possible negative Paris vibes.

Additionally, there’s no better way to realize that you really love your partner than to have a clandestine affair, right? Being in the bed of another hot-blooded Latin culture is certainly the best way to realize that you truly love your trustworthy Parisian bed. Isn’t that how love works?

Oh really? Italian olive oil? French wasn't good enough?

So I’m leaving my love for a week to go mess around with

Italy

. It’s cheaper to fly there and shack up for a week in a hotel than to shack up with a real Italian hooker here in Paris. And the pizza will be better, I assume.

I suppose that the best part of going away to another country to do who knows what with

Italy

is that I’ll return with a whole month of vacation before school starts. That means during September, Paris can treat me terribly to make me feel guilty for what I’m about to do. Paris won’t speak to me for a few weeks and will make me sleep on the couch while I beg for forgiveness for my Italian transgressions. True love.

Adorable Animals - Taking the Big Step?

2011-07-28T10:43:00.002+02:00

Cat-sitting success, Lindsey's baby Cali...

I had that dream again. I wasn’t falling. I wasn’t dying. I wasn’t at my high school reunion dressed awkwardly in a tux drinking Champagne (that was Tuesday). No, it was that dream where I became a father. My child? A young red tabby cat.

It’s an all-too-recurrent dream of mine. I want a cat. Well, actually, I think I want a dog, but I can’t leave a dog along for a day without paying the price. I always grew up with dogs, rabbits, turtles, sea monkeys, birds, fish. We had animals everywhere in the house, and even outside. One summer we decided to set my brother digging in the backyard resulting in an aquatic garden, an ornamental pond full of tadpoles and koi. The large golden fish were beautiful, and apparently very tasty to the endangered blue heron that they attracted to our backyard…

Though as long as I can remember, while the puppies ran around the house chewing shoes and the parakeets squalked in their cages, I had a stuffed reddish-orange cat that at one point lost an eye. No one in the family wanted a kitten. Cats are off-standish, unaffectionate, unfriendly. Who needs that when you have a gushing, slobbering dog on the couch just yearning to be pet? So I kept my plush cycloptic cat hidden safely in my room, never manifesting any real desire for a kitten. While raised a dog person, I think I may be a closeted cat person. Sorry, Mom.

Not quite a parakeet...but I've owned birds already...

A goat: affection and cheese..hmm...

Here in Paris, friends with cats rave about their feline pals. Everyone loves them, no one complains about them, no one rushes home because the cat has to be walked. I even babysat for one recently during two weeks – well, cat-sat – for Lindsey of Lost in Cheeseland and I convinced myself that living with a cat isn’t that bad at all, as long as the litter box is cleaned regularly. It helped that her cat, pictured above, Cali, is the cutest thing ever. My dog-loving friends are visibly more constrained. “Oh it’s five already? I have to go, the dogs…” I understand the canine parental instinct, especially since there is rarely a litter box to catch their doggy droppings, but between freelancing and studying and attempting a social life, I could never add a puppy on top of that.

A bunny in Paris...doubles as dinner in times of need...

A kitten, however, now that’s another story. A little Parisian kitten, a red tabby, is exactly what I need. It must be a kitten so I can mold its habits and values from the youngest possible age. I will be a good parent. I’ll feed it every day. I’ll brush its coat. I’ll clean its litter box. I’ll even give it treats if it does all of its chores on time. But first I have to find one. Friends have been telling me to go to the vet, to check out listings online, but I’m secretly hoping the kitten will find me, a stray will wander in through my fifth floor window and wait for affection. That’s how it works, right?

If my dream is any indication, however, I need to be careful. Last night I dreamt that my red tabby ran out the apartment door that I foolishly left open and escaped into the city. Hijinks ensued. I eventually retrieved it, but forgot to close the door yet again. Bad parenting, nightmare, or cautionary foretelling? Who knows, but I think I’m ready to take my chances.

Paris Fail: Someone Left the Bread Out in the Rain

2011-07-24T08:19:00.000+02:00

It had just finished raining in the Luxembourg Gardens and the sun started to peak through the clouds when I came across this loaf of bread perched all alone on a park bench. Someone left the bread out in the rain. The saddest part was not that the bread would eventually get soggy and go to waste. I could deal with that. Instead, it just looked lonely.

Who would leave a loaf of French bread all alone in a park during a rainstorm? A sub-par eclair or a stale croissant I could deal with, but bread? What would Donna Summer think?

Artisanal is the New Pink...

2011-07-16T22:40:00.000+02:00

Thanks, Georges...from Le Bonbon au Palais candy store...

I laughed when I read on an application for the Sorbonne that a letter of motivation had to be “manuscrite,” or written out by hand. In an age where virtually every aspect of our lives passes through a computer keyboard, I had to hand-write a letter in ink on a blank sheet of white paper. No lines allowed. How backwards, I thought. I’d rather just type it.

I ended up not doing the application. Lacking interest in the program, or simply playing the lazy card, I did not want to write the letter and waste hours recopying and applying white-out. Some people say this method is used to gauge your character based on your handwriting. Others say it’s to test your dedication. I think it’s just to get a laugh out of the 19 year old girls who still dot their eyes with hearts. It’s cute, but at the Sorbonne?

The idea of doing things in an artisanal fashion, keeping to tradition, doing things by hand, is a hallmark of French culture. That’s why you can sit at the dinner table and discuss food for hours with the French because it’s all wrapped up in tradition – it’s not just about the taste and presentation, but where it comes from and how it is made. It can be a fantastic obsession, resulting in the best, homemade, handcrafted anything.

But sometimes tradition gets in the way.

My new artisan neighbor...

For example we gripe and moan in lines at the police station as we wait hours for paperwork to be processed. “Why can’t everything be done online?” we grumble as we wait our turn to meet with an actual person to discuss our files. What we don’t always see is the bureaucrat diligently hand-writing our names and information into a giant human ledger the size of an atlas, marking our presence in this country. It all seems so 19^thcentury, but it’s how things are done.

Then today I opened up my mailbox and between the tire pump I stash there and last year’s Ikea catalog that I never discarded there was a small piece of paper that was seemingly handwritten. I realized quickly that it was in fact a photocopy of a handwritten message that someone had put in all of our mailboxes. It was an advertisement from Mr. Alain, the “new artisan in the hood.” He was offering his handyman services to the neighborhood and had written this little message to introduce himself.

By calling himself an artisan and using a hand-written advertisement, Mr. Alain struck a chord with me. I could see this man, probably in his 50s, hand-writing his message and then struggling to get it copied correctly at the printer because, let’s face it, he’s artisanal and probably doesn’t even own a computer. It was kind of touching and I would probably call Mr. Alain if ever I needed some repairs done in my apartment in the same way that I’d trust my grandfather before the guy from Sears.

Who needs to reprint? Handmade = cute...

I could never imagine seriously considering hand-written advertisements in my mailbox in New York unless they came from some sort of flighty student group or council. But here, it’s endearing. Someone took the time to handwrite this message – and eventually copy it, but still. It’s a bit more human than an email, and a great marketing strategy in any case. If Mr. Alain turns out to be some slick 30 year old with a degree from Sciences Po, I’d be surprised, but ultimately disappointed. His white old-man hair should be appropriately tousled to match his mustache and there should be just enough dirt under his fingernails to make him look like a hard worker. And he needs to wear overalls.

I’ll guess I’ll wait until the heater breaks to give him a call and see who’s behind that handwriting…

This Nostalgia Tastes Likes Cardboard...

2011-07-08T16:09:00.000+02:00

Just a box...

There’s a certain giddy feeling that we all get when we see emails from loved ones, friends, or family. Especially living abroad, where email has replaced the written letter, it’s nice to know people are thinking of you.

But the emails can get a little sad. You can’t touch them. You can’t hear them. They are easily deleted and forgotten. There is another form of communication, however, that evokes much more true emotion than my Gmail account. Cardboard. It’s nostalgic. It’s unequivocally full of love like an email can never be. You don’t think so?

Whenever my mother sends me a package, it’s always in a cardboard box. Be it cooking supplies, Halloween candy, or the most recent carton full of Tasty Kake pastries, the cardboard is an immediate signal that, “Hey, someone’s thinking of you!” Envelopes sometimes have this effect, but it’s hard to get nostalgic about a letter when the phone bill comes in similar packaging.

A cardboard box is unique. Since I avoid online shopping, I know that a box means something special. And more than the contents, it’s a tactile way to communicate with my family. I know that my mom probably found the box in the garage, using tape and paper from my dad’s office supplies to close it up and label it. I can see where she pressed the tape and where she didn’t, leaving little air bubbles between the cardboard and the clear adhesive. I can see her scribbling the address on the envelope, taped securely to the top. I envision watching her go to the post office, weighing it, possibly lying about its contents to avoid major customs fees, and then sending it off on its way.

Cardboard paired with pastries...win...

Then she waits, for about a week, until I call from Paris, thanking her, mouth usually full of whatever candy, cookie, or cake was stashed inside. No matter how many croissants or Lindt’s chocolate bars you have in Paris, there’s something about a Tasty Kake and a Reese’s cup that I can’t deny.

Call me a packrat because I always thought I saved these boxes, folded carefully, under my bed just in case I’d have to move one day. And boxes can be expensive in Paris, oddly enough. But no, instead, it’s probably the sentimental factor. Since everything inside the boxes gets eaten, the only tactile thing left from these cherished packages is a bit of cardboard, chosen and sent with care from across the ocean.

You can’t just throw that away, right?

Paris Fail: I Got 99 Problems...and the "B" is One...

2011-06-29T09:57:00.000+02:00

Props to fellow tour guide Tyler for chuckling at this screen while in the metro last night. The RER B, the regional railway that runs out to the Charles de Gaulle airport, was having some problems according to this message. The rough translation?

"As a repercussion of various incidents, traffic is flowing very slowly on the entire train line."

Various incidents, ya don't say? Normally the RATP, Paris' public transportation service, is a little bit more forthcoming with their announcements. Usually they tell you if there is an electrical problem, if a passenger got sick, if there is a suspicious package, or if there is a mix-up with the train signals.

Not today. Today it was hot, it was raining, it was a Tuesday -- there too many issues to even mention on the screen, so just trust them, as a result of "various incidents," your train will be delayed.

Thanks for understanding.

Paris Win: The Grass is Always Greener

2011-06-27T12:35:00.003+02:00

Get the shears at BHV...

I’m always a little confused when I hear a lawnmower outside my apartment. There is hardly any grass to be seen, but apparently there are just enough patches of green between me and the Canal that someone invested in a mower. Unlike hammers and band saws, the lawnmowers never irritate me. Instead they churn up that childhood nostalgia.

Like most suburban boys, at least I think like most, I was charged with certain yard work. My brother and I would have our go at the front and back lawns every weekend or so during the summer, riding the mowers carelessly over desiccated dog droppings and clothespins, trimming the yard to near-perfection. Well, perfection was always subjective, as far as my grandfather was concerned. A stickler for all things grass, he was rarely satisfied with our work on the lawn, finding fault in our technique and the eventual results. But we were free labor, so who can really complain?

Like crickets in the evening and the rustling of the trees before a storm, the mechanical chugging of the lawnmower was part of the suburban symphony. It’s a sound that I miss as much as the scents of the freshly cut grass that accompanied it. Walking around the Hotel de Ville this weekend, I was surprised to find a patch of green that looked like it could use a quick manicure, and I could smell the grass baking in the heat of the summer sun.

The mayor's new front yard...

This Jardin Ephémère, a sort of pop-up garden, is as educational as it is bizarre, overtaking an urban landscape with tiny bits of rolling hills that seem to echo Julie Andrews’ voice. With temperatures in the sun climbing the thermometer, I’m in no hurry to get the push mower out and start trimming the blades of grass, but I am antsy to kick off my shoes and feel them between my toes.

Of course the lawns here at the Hotel de Ville are off limits to touch, but there’s no shortage of Parisian parks calling me this summer. Unfortunately their lawns will never smell as good as the ones back home after a fresh shearing. I’m sure if my grandfather were here, he’d have a few words for gardener André Le Notre and his landscapes at Versailles or the Jardins des Tuileries. Better him than me, right?

The hills are alive...

It's Not Every Day a Yak is Born in Paris...

2011-06-25T13:39:00.000+02:00

Gettin' clean...

It’s not a metaphor. Literally, a yak was born. I arrived just as the mother, umbilical cord still dangling, was cleaning her newborn yak, just minutes after its birth. Disgusting? Yes. Magical? Eh, kind of.

It was just another day strolling through the zoo at the Jardin des Plantes, the second oldest zoo in the world and the home to all of the animals from Versailles after the Revolution. It also housed Christmas dinner for the Parisians during the Prussian Siege of 1871, since many of the animals were slaughtered and cooked. It’s nothing like the zoos in Philadelphia or San Diego, but it serves as a tiny “natural” oasis in the middle of an otherwise bustling urban jungle. It’s a children’s playground of kangaroos, monkeys, and of course the beloved yaks.

Passersby didn’t really pay too much attention to the newly birthed baby, but I gawked alongside zookeepers, video cameras in hand as the mother cleaned off her newborn and then slowly nudged the infant towards its first step. It was a true family moment, even though the father yak was too busy eating to help clean off the baby.

A first step...

It’s one of those things that you never imagine happening in a place like Paris. Granted, Edith Piaf was allegedly born under a street lamp on rue de Belleville, but I’m sure no one stopped to watch. With a glittering Eiffel Tower, centuries of pristine art in the Louvre, and elegant avenues full of Chanel and Givenchy, who would ever imagine being awed by the removal of placental fluids from a newborn beast of burden?

I certainly never thought that birthing yaks would constitute an attraction, but there I was. I guess you just never know…

They spelled "Yak" wrong...

The Guillotine was Designed for Shaving...

2011-06-17T13:13:00.002+02:00

Heads, hair -- guillotine, razor...

I’ve hit an impasse. I’m not entirely ashamed, either. It’s one of those French impasses that I didn’t plan on or calculate, but one that has left me feeling more like a Parisian than I ever thought. It’s also left me a bit itchy. These days, I have put down the razor and all but refuse to shave.

Parisian men have basically two styles: clean shaven or artfully scruffy. The social lines seem blurred. Students in my class will either never sport facial hair or sport it religiously. Bankers can be smooth-faced or have a tended 5 o’clock shadow hovering across their cheeks. From the most unkempt-looking hipster to the most well-to-do bourgeois, shaving is a statement.

Apparently I have made mine. Much like vacuuming the floor and cooking, shaving has become a ritual that I no longer respect. It happens once in a blue moon. Maybe twice a month? In between shaves, I take the electric shaver and do a quick run through to keep things in order.

The razor, however, is my new enemy. Chalk it up to my sensitive skin, stories about the guillotine during the Reign of Terror, or the notion that facial hair somehow gives me more street cred. Either way, it’s an arbitrary statement. Yet, I feel awkwardly comfortable with my tamed scruff. Walking down the gritty Canal Saint Martin or along the famed Champs Elysées, I feel at home.

Such an artist..

There is a particular class of people where I live called semi-pejoratively bobo – bohemian-bourgeois. They are people who go to great lengths to look like starving artists while filing in a higher tax bracket than I can ever imagine. It’s a way of life, a scruffy, down-to-earth existence paid for by embossed checks and platinum cards. Well-manicured facial hair that looks effortless is one of their trademarks.

Living among the bobos, it’s not impossible that they will start to take me as one of their own, with my newfound defiant shaving habits. Sometimes I look the part and I fit right in as I read along the banks of the Canal, appearing as ragamuffin as they all do. I just hope they don’t get a peak at the non-designer label on my cardigan or inspect the authentic holes in my jeans too closely – they aren’t true bobo fashion statements at all. But from the neck up, I'm in the club, for better or for worse.

Paris Fail: Oversight...

2011-06-10T10:41:00.002+02:00

Um...

No one would ever accuse the French of bending over backwards for handicapped visitors. It’s not a handicap-friendly place, yet. Paris is an old city, and who can imagine adding elevators and ramps in every little medieval building? I understand the frustration on both sides. Reconstructing the city to make it accessible to everyone is costly and difficult, but why shouldn’t a wheelchair rider be able to access the metro?

There is some progress. For example, hotels are now required to have a wheelchair-accessible room on the ground floor – a huge improvement and a step in the right direction.

The visually impaired is another group that has difficulty navigating Paris. Fortunately the city isn’t impossible for the blind and it’s not rare to observe people managing with a cane or being helped across the street by a kindly Parisian.

Braille, however, seems to be a language that the French themselves really don’t understand. It’s curious since Louis Braille was, after all, French. He's even buried in the Pantheon. Take a look at this diorama at a local chateau that caters to French speakers and, almost, to braille readers as well.

One has to wonder, however, how useful that tactile language is in this instance. Call it an oversight (pun!) or someone’s idea of a (successful) joke, but I think the French need to get schooled in braille so that everyone can enjoy this city regardless of their capabilities.

Great concept...

...but that's as close as I can get...

A typical case of the ~~blind~~ French leading the blind...

Never Striking the Same Place Twice: A Retrospective

2011-06-06T00:28:00.001+02:00

My room with a view...

When the gods begin to grumble and Mother Nature’s long awaited tears of joy finally started to descend upon the city this weekend, Parisians breathed a collective sigh of relief. Weeks of no rain have left the flowers, trees, and cakey sidewalk dog poo thirsty for a good soaking, and this weekend the thunderstorms did not disappoint.

Thunder roared and lightning stitched across the sky like brilliant blue ribbons. The rain fell in sheets soaking those of us who poorly timed their return home and ran from the metro, seeking five minutes of reprieve at Pink Flamingo pizzeria before making the final dash home through the refreshing but drenching storm.

As I, like the rest of Paris, turned off the music and TV and watched nature’s latest episode in awe, I was hit with pangs of nostalgia yet again. Thunderstorms are a common feature of the Philadelphia lifestyle, but in Paris I have forgotten, until now, why I love a good old fashioned storm so much.

So much about a thunderstorm is universal – the elements, the dangers, etc. My perceptions and reactions, however, have changed, and I notice that a storm isn’t just a storm. Let’s take a look at the five essential differences between thunderstorms on the East Coast, per my childhood, and thunderstorm in Paris.

1. American thunderstorms were always dangerously fun in that hop-in-your-bathtub-in-case-there’s-a-tornado sort of way. In the Mid-Atlantic this was rarely a real threat, but we knew how dangerous storms could be. Lightning, heavy winds and torrential downpours can be catastrophic. French thunderstorms are known, according to my former Parisian colleagues, for rattling your windows and disrupting sleep.

2. American thunderstorms risk cutting off the electricity. As a youngster, I always loved watching the lights flicker, waiting for the moment when it would be necessary to start lighting the candles that we had on hand. French thunderstorms interrupt drinks on the terraces. Emergency tables located inside.

3. American thunderstorms require you to avoid using unnecessary electronics and prevent you from taking a shower, just in case lighting hits the house. We would unplug the blender and anything else that did not require a digital clock to be reset. My mother instilled in me the fear of dying by electrocution in the shower, however true or untrue it may have been. French thunderstorms are no threat. The Eiffel Tower is a citywide lighting rod, protecting us all.

4. American thunderstorms can be tracked systematically on televised Doppler radar, using color coded maps to indicate where the heaviest storm activity would be located, how much rain could be expected, which rivers would flood, and whether there would be a “watch” or a “warning.” French thunderstorms are always a surprise.

Just hanging out with Mother Nature...

5. American thunderstorms don’t just hit without any build-up. The air pressure changes noticeably, the darkened sky changes colors as the clouds roll in slowly, and the rain usually starts in a few drops releasing the distinctive smell of wet asphalt from the pavement. In Paris, it’s the same, but the rain seems only to enhance the smell of the urine-soaked Parisian asphalt, so that almost-sweet scent that I recall from my days in the suburbs is no where to be found.

So it’s not exactly how I remembered it back home, but storms are still beautiful in Paris Also, granted, this list is not exhaustive. So, what did I miss??

Chantilly Wars

2011-06-03T00:39:00.003+02:00

A new war is raging in France these days. For once, it has nothing to do with the Germans, the English, the Huns, or the Vikings. No, instead, the opponent is one of the most prevalent figures to be found in France. And the battlefield? My stomach.

It is not rare for those who grow (slightly) older to develop intolerance to lactose. Really, it’s not that I have become intolerant. Lactose has just become more aggressive, I believe. All of the sudden, the dairy aisle has a way of making my stomach turn. In a country who boasts a cheese for nearly every day of the year, the odds are stacked against me. It’s not my fault. I didn’t start this war.

The chateau at Chantilly...

Now it’s not all bad. Certain cheeses and yogurts are not off limits, but my beloved ice cream and crème fraiche have turned into demons that can quickly turn the tastiest of meals into the most painful of regrets. I have only two defenses in this matter. First, I can give up on dairy altogether and be done with it.

Yeah, right.

Or, two, I can rely on my new best friend, the Lactaid pill. It seems that no trip to, well, anywhere is complete with my wallet, my keys, and one or two individually wrapped tablets that my mother sent me a few weeks ago. Most recently, no where has Lactaid been as indispensible as it was during a trip to Chantilly – home to the famous whipped cream.

The chateau of Chantilly is about an hour outside of Paris in the Picardie region. A humble castle and garden inspired features at the not-so-humble chateau of Versailles. Most notably, Marie Antoinette asked her hubby Louis XVI for her own little hamlet based off the quaint hameau at Chantilly. It was here in the outdoor restaurant of the hamlet that I tested my good friend Lactaid.

For dessert we hate strawberries with Chantilly – fresh sweetened whipped cream. We also had spiced cake with Chantilly. And of course strawberry sorbet – again, with Chantilly. All of that cream in the middle of a sunny June afternoon while touring the chateau seemed like a bad idea, but I trusted my little Lactaid buddy. Would we win the war together?

Poison...the enemy...

Well after lunch, all was going well. My Chantilly-filled colleague and I toured the gardens. Things were fine. Then we checked out the chapel of the chateau. Still, Lactaid was waging the good war. Then we walked through the Condé museum. All clear. Then we made it to the library, a miniature version of the Beast’s gift to Belle in the Disney film, and, well, it seemed that Lactaid and I had won the war.

The Hameau...the battlefield...

I thought I was in the clear until we walked back to the car as the museum was closing. My stomach felt fantastic and everything was going great until someone suggested we get ice cream before the hour-long car ride home. At this point, my stomach turned upside down. I imagined the remaining medication in my stomach was jumping up and down warning me not to do it. I heeded the warning and steered clear of the ice cream and went right for the car.

Bryan, one point.

Dairy products, zero.

Bring it.

Forget Coffee...the New Caffeine Rush

2011-05-26T23:59:00.004+02:00

Dear rue Grange aux Belles, look out...

The irony wasn't lost on me as I ran across this scenario in my neighborhood. The driver of a Red Bull promotional car taking a coffee break at a Parisian café. Caffeine much?

I don't know if the irony lies in the fact that a Parisian café is the watering hole for caffeine-addicts or if no café waiter ever seems remotely energized, at least not enough to get your bill to you in under fifteen minutes.

Regardless, giving away Red Bull all day in Paris must be exhausting and, of course, requires a coffee break to refresh. If you had to choose between Parisian coffee and Red Bull, which would you choose?

Red Bull isn't new to France, but I hadn't seen these cars around town. But I got to thinking, why would any Parisian need a Red Bull? What benefits are in it for a Frenchman? A quick look at the "numerous scientific studies" on the drink shows that the product does have an effect on the body, but the company's website fails to mention any negative cardiovascular effects that may exist. How do the "positive" effects, however, apply to Parisians? More importantly, is the marketing campaign working? Well let's take a look...

Increases performance

Absolutely. Red Bull helps Parisians make it through the grueling 35-hour work week and hour-long lunch breaks without lagging in productivity. They are among the most productive workers in the world, after all. How do you think they pulled that off? Weeks upon weeks of vacation? No way.

Increases concentration and reaction speed

Of course Parisians rely on Red Bull for their reaction speed. Each time I shout, “pardon” in the streets as a group of people fails to make room on the miniscule sidewalk or whenever I look longingly at the man behind whatever bureaucratic desk I’m waiting in front of, the five minute delay is due to a lack of Red Bull. Any delay of reaction is due to Parisians who need caffeine. Forget the tiny espressos. Red Bull, please.

Improves vigilance

This couldn’t be truer. Parisians are among the most vigilant cultures because of Red Bull. They quality-check their wines, they give awards to their bread, and they painstakingly primp before any trip outside of their apartments. They watch over the most important parts of their culture. But that dog poop on the street? Chalk up this lack of vigilance to a lack of Red Bull. Marketing managers take note, target the dog walkers.

Stimulates metabolism

Red wine, sensible portions, lots of exercise, and a moratorium on snacking – these are why Parisians are so thin, right? Wrong. It’s Red Bull. Parisians drink Red Bull to stay skinny, and you should, too.

Makes you feel more energetic and thus improves your overall well-being

It’s not the indulgent Nutella that gives them energy, nor do the stress-free daily walks to the markets for fresh vegetables certainly contribute to well-being. It’s not the relaxed nature of this cosmopolitan yet quaint metropolis bursting with cultural opportunities and historical wonder. It’s Red Bull. Parisian well-being comes from Red Bull.

I think that sums it up pretty nicely. Paris needs Red Bull. But now I’m just wondering if you can have Red Bull with red meat OR chicken…it just doesn’t seem right…

"Doorbell French"

2011-05-23T11:43:00.000+02:00

My ultra-secure door and keychain

As a child in the suburbs, one of life’s greatest joys was the doorbell. Each time someone came to the door, the dog would be the first to know, barking frantically at the stranger outside. My mother would shove the dog in the kitchen before peaking through the curtains of the door window I imagined to make sure it wasn’t a polite burglar, or worse, her mother-in-law. Then my siblings and I would run out of our respective rooms and wait at the top of the stairs peering down to see who was there.

Usually it was the delivery man dropping off the latest QVC purchase – my mother is a fan. Sometimes it’d be friends of the family dropping off gifts or returning borrowed kitchen utensils. The Jehovah’s Witnesses made their rounds as did the traveling knife salesman. It was always a surprise but one that reminded us that we were not alone on our little street.

This excitement has faded over the years as I moved to Paris in an apartment building – and not just because I don’t have a dog. The doorbell elicits a new Pavlovian reaction for me these days. Instead of running to see who it is, I hit the mute button on iTunes and freeze as still as possible, much like my mother would have done if her mother-in-law were at the door.

In Paris, I hate answering the door.

There is no window to peak through and, more importantly, no child witnesses to make sure that the person on the other side won’t hack my body into a thousand pieces to fit me inside my tiny dorm-sized Parisian refrigerator. But worse than the impending fear of death and the realization that I need to get clothes on as quickly as possible without raising suspicions is the fact that, linguistically, my “doorbell French,” as I call it, is some of my worst.

Unlike going to the bakery or to the bank where I know what to expect, which words to use, and which words will be used, “doorbell French” is the most foreign French ever because I never know who will be on the other side. This lack of preparation puts me into a heightened sense of stress. The result? I babble like a four-year old while trying to respond.

Beyond just understanding the words, it takes a moment to contextualize the situation. Who is this person and why are they at my door? They arrive and they introduce themselves so quickly that all I hear is, “Bonjour, jeanpierredecardeaudelasocietemachintrucdeparisdixième,” and then they begin the conversation. But hold up, I only managed to process the “Bonjour” before getting to the end of that sentence. Instantly destabilized, the downward spiral begins.

A new collection of cards...

When Christian missionaries tried to invite themselves in to preach the Bible, I had difficulty just stammering out a “no.” I think they might be Avon spokespeople as they babble on about salvation and redemption. Good skincare, I think, can lead to deliverance from Satan, can’t it?

Real estate agents repeatedly try to get me to sell my apartment, but I have difficulty explaining to them that I am just a renter. I am taken by surprise and the “doorbell French” dribbles out like the gooey snot on a toddler’s nose, so repulsive that often the second of a pair of salespeople at my door will tell the other one, “Let’s just go, this isn’t worth it.”

In the end, my “doorbell French” helps me win the battle. The almost-always-unwelcomed people leave as quickly as they arrive. As if my hastily-dressed appearance and messy apartment weren’t enough, the lack of comprehension scares them away.

I am not discouraged from opening the door since its good language practice. Still, if ever I stop posting for more than a week or two, somebody might want to come over and just make sure that I’m not wedged piecemeal in my fridge. Or worse, reading the Bible over tea with my new missionary friends…

A Last Day in Paris...

2011-05-20T10:00:00.002+02:00

Don't want to forget...

So according to some people, tomorrow the world is going to end. I’m skeptical, but I don’t trust my own Biblical math as much as I trust others’. We’ll see who got it right – that crotchety 89 year-old cult leader in Colorado or the defunct Mayan civilization who predicted the world will end in 2012.

In any case, this premonition has made me think of what I would do if the world really were to end tomorrow. So many people write touching articles about what they miss when they leave Paris, but in homage to the seven signs of the apocalypse, here’s my list of the seven things I’d do if this were my – and everyone’s – last day in Paris.

1. I’d consume all of my American reserves. I’m not sure if other expats are this way, but I squirrel away whatever I can to make those cookies that mom sent for Christmas or those Reese’s holiday candies last as long as possible. That means eating a Cadbury egg in August, and I’m not ashamed. But if the world were to end, I’d eat them all in one go and use all of my American deodorant so at least I smell fresh for doomsday.

2. I’d wear running sneakers with jeans. This and other fashion faux pas pervade every fashion choice and quite frankly, it’s exhausting. I am much more aware of what I wear in Paris than I ever did in New York. But at the final judgment, I don’t think image will matter as much unless God is a Tyra Banks fan. Plus, if the horses of the apocalypse were chasing me, I’d want to be able to run.

Time to dust em off...

3. I’d call my mom and warn her. Since France is 6 hours ahead of the US East Coast, I’d want my family to prepare a bit. Brush the dogs, vacuum a bit, put out some crackers and dip. I mean, it’s the Second Coming, after all. Jesus expects a little hospitality. And in the case that a giant wave from the Atlantic would sweep across Paris drowning us all, I’d want to say bye bye.

4. I’d buy canned goods, kerosene, and boxed wine. According to some speculation, May 21^st in when the virtuous people go to heaven. The rest of us have to suffer 153 days – no more, no less – before taking the plunge to “the Other Place.” Well I, for one, will be prepared. While the rest of Paris is off reliving Sodom and Gomorrah, I’ll be safe in my fifth floor walk up rationing chick peas and praying for redemption by firelight while tipping the box (no other time would boxed wine be appropriate in Paris). I don’t want to take any chances.

5. I’d go to the Louvre and punch the Mona Lisa. Apparently if you get too close to her or break the glass, the wall she hangs on rotates around, locking her safely away. That’d be a site to see before the End, no? Really, I just want her to be safe during the apocalypse…

Kraft Mac n' Cheese...finish it. Last chance...

6. I’d jump of the bridge at the Canal St-Martin by my house. Not in a suicidal sort of way, not at all. In the summertime, French kids often jump from the bridge into the putrid waters of the Canal below on a dare, and it looks like fun. With only one day to go, I’ve got nothing to lose. If anything, the heavy pollution in the water might protect me from nuclear radiation if Jesus decides to take the nuclear war route.

7. I’d hit up my favorite bakery and buy all of the escargot pistache chocolat that I could. Flaky, buttery pastry swirls with a pistachio cream studded with chocolate chips – what better last meal could there be? I assume that French bakers will be working up until the last moment, just in case the angels or raging beasts of the apocalypse need some fresh baguettes.

After this list is complete, I’d have a cigarette. I mean, by that point…

March of the...Potheads?

2011-05-08T18:55:00.000+02:00

Pride?

I thought it was a little early for gay pride. While revising a paper along the sun soaked canal this weekend, I was interrupted by a parade of youth marching in the middle of the adjacent street. Waving rainbow flags and banners, I half expected to see sequin-wearing drag queens behind them. I was disappointed to find out that they were instead pushing for the decriminalization of marijuana.

After a few years in New York, living in college dorms no less, I have had my fair share dealing with marijuana (dealing WITH it, not actually dealing). As a resident assistant, I have fond memories of roaming the halls when I was “on duty,” knocking on doors where pot smoke was all but billowing out from under the door.

Oh...pot.

“What are you guys doing?” I’d ask.

“Just…burning…incense,” the scared and stoned freshman would respond. Sigh. The good times.

While I still do get the occasional whiff from the Parisian students in my building, marijuana seems much less present in Paris. It’s just one more on an endless list of differences between a life in Paris and a life in New York. Who needs a bagel when you can have a baguette? But sometimes I crave endless diner coffee while I’m sitting stirring my espresso at the café.

The Paris vs New York blog sums up these differences perfectly. So after this little pot parade, I started wondering, what would the equivalent in Paris be to pot in New York? How could the Paris vs New York blog tackle this one?

I've seen better parades...

Any ideas?

Just a kid at the Sorbonne...My Food's Better than Your Food (?)

2011-05-04T08:57:00.000+02:00

Finally...

So this week in English class, the presentations rolled on as usual, discussing Rocky for what it was worth. The group failed to discuss the importance of Philadelphia in the movie, though every time I tell someone I’m from Philly their only reaction is, “Rocky?” Alas.

Before class, however, I was the subject of several classmates’ attention on the age-old topic of cultural differences. Is it difficult living here? Do you miss home? The bise is confusing – the double, sometimes trip kiss on the cheek. Even the French aren’t always sure what side to start on or how many to give.

And then of course they attacked it – the food. Those who had been to the US recall gaining weight like crazy, those who hadn’t heard that everything is wrapped in cellophane. I assured them it’s not as bad as it sounds, but when the subject of cheese came up, I lost the battle. I assured them that food was not the only reason I wanted to live in France, but they weren’t listening. After almost three years in Paris, I’m used to this sort of lecture.

I grew up eating well. Too well, sometimes. I wasn’t a skinny kid. We ate or share of mac-n-cheese and hotdogs – happily, mind you, but beef wellington and lobster made their way to our table from time to time. I don’t recall my mother actually killing the crustaceans herself, but she prepared them well the few times we indulged. Homemade Caesar salad, homemade pasta sauce and lasagna, homemade pastries – it was something we valued. But we didn’t stigmatize things that came prepackaged either. Frozen chicken fingers were a treat – and easy, to boot. We were all just happy to be in the kitchen at all, to see what was bubbling over the stove, to peak into the cookies browning in the oven.

We had plenty of prepared food because, in the suburbs of Philadelphia, this is what you do. You don’t drive to the supermarket every day, so you can’t afford to have the freshest of fresh produce every single day. This doesn’t mean we didn’t have homegrown tomatoes or plenty of corn to shuck in the summer time. It just meant that we appreciated frozen foods since it meant veggies all year long. It also meant fewer trips to the store, saving on costly gasoline.

Trying to explain this mentality to a group of Parisian students was like telling them that their cheese was made with pasteurized milk. Scandal. I swore we had our benefits, that American food wasn’t always as dainty or fresh as French fare, but the variety, the possibilities, the combinations – they weren’t having it.

And that kid got a baguette??? Fool.

The one I wanted, too...

Then on the walk home, after grabbing a French escargot chocolat in defeat in a classic Parisian pastry shop, I found these delights – portable pizzas. I’ve seen these in Spain and New York, and I’ve heard rumors of them making it to France, but I had yet to see them. Confirmation is still needed to see how fresh those grilled tomatoes and onions are in this portable-pizza-to-go concoction. I just wish my fellow students had been there to explain…it puts the term "cultural difference" in its place, I suppose...

I finished my pastry, my hunger satiated, so I didn’t indulge if you can imagine. But head down to Boulevard Montparnasse and check it out if you’d like. Just beware, the ham and cheese pizza-wraps sells out fast – it’s already épuisé at this local bakery, so you’ll have to try one of the three other varieties. Good luck.

Paris Win: May Day in France

2011-05-01T21:20:00.002+02:00

To have a reason to buy flowers is almost a ridiculous concept. Who needs a reason to bring something beautiful and cheerful into the world? Not me. Not you. No one. But sometimes it’s nice to have a little push.

Even the President stops to smell the...lilies.

May 1^st is May Day, a sort of Labor Day in France (on Sunday?) and while many stores and museums are closed, the flower sellers are out and about. Organizations like the Red Cross are selling their lilies of they valley on the street, a tradition that dates back to the French royal court in the 16^th century.

The lily of the valley is steeped in tradition, and apparently the flower was first grown from the tears of Eve when she was banished from the Garden of Eden. Other legends say that the flowers grew from the tears of the Virgin Mary at the foot of the cross.

Both stories are depressing and should be forgotten.

Flowers. Just. Everywhere.

But King Charles IX apparently was given the flower as a lucky charm, and, smitten by the gesture, gave the flowers to all of the women of the court so that they could all get lucky on May 1^st…awkward, but much sweeter than virgin tears at an execution.

The idea, however, of selling flowers in the street on May 1^st, I’m down with it. Why not every day? Why should we ever need a reason to treat ourselves with a little bouquet? I guess we can start with May 1^st and work our way to the other 364 days. It’s only a matter of time, I suppose.

Paris Win: Le Country Line Dancing

2011-04-22T23:23:00.003+02:00

They were havin' fun, no doubt about it.

Fantastic shirt.

As if watching dubbed versions of "Doctor Quinn Medicine Woman" and searching in vain for green tea lattes at Starbucks aren't stark enough reminders of the odd parts of American culture that succeed and fail to become part of France, there's this. Country line dancing in front of the mayor's office at the Hotel de Ville.

Apparently the Francophone Federation of Country and Line Dance decided to celebrate themselves last Sunday and the results were nothing short of nostalgic for a young expat.

At first it seemed ridiculous, but then I realized, why not do this in one of the most public spots in Paris? It would be ridiculous to keep some of those outfits locked up in the closet.

The dancers were true to their craft, smiling and cheering with each kick and dosey doe. Throw in some cotton candy, funnel cake, and a few farm animals and nostalgia for the hometown county fairs would have churned within me. Fortunately, within a five minute walk, I was back to Paris, fashionistas in the Marais, and medieval architecture discoveries that abated the nostalgia. But for a brief moment, I could see the fireworks and hear the downbeat of the Star Spangled Banner...or at least some Taylor Swift...

Dusty City: Musings of Times Past

2011-04-16T00:50:00.003+02:00

Old. City. Period.

My grandmother laughed on the phone yesterday when I said that I was getting old. I told her my back hurt and, unsurprisingly, she retorted with her list of maladies that put me in my place. After a brief comparison of the medications that we were both taking – she is sending me Lactaid, more on that later – I realized that, especially in Paris, I don’t know how anyone could feel old. My grandmom would feel like a kid here. This city is like a centenarian that keeps kicking through the millennia, and she lets you know it.

Just take a walk around certain parts of the city. The Saint Germain church was begun in the sixth century. I can’t even imagine life during centuries that start having single digits. The sheer age and duration of the architecture around here can make anyone feel achy in the knees. No glass pyramid or fancy new opera house can ever replace the well-worn and fractured hip that this city still bounces on.

Today as we walked through the Tuileries gardens, a tourist asked me why the city used dust in its gardens. Observant. I never really noticed that each time I left the garden I’d stomp my feet so that clouds of dirt would puff out like Pigpen from the Peanuts. It’s almost symbolic, a sort of reminder that you can’t experience 2260 or so years of a city’s life without getting a little dusty.

Dusty gardens...

When we are young, we head to the attic and dig around for treasures – old stuffed animals, family photos, forgotten toys – and dust is an integral part of the experience. If it’s not dusty or dirty, it can’t be that interesting. It can’t be hiding any secrets.

Paris is the same way. The restaurants change and the art galleries rotate their exhibits, but the history never disappears. Henri IV’s assassination will never happen anywhere else. The bones in the Catacombs will never find another final resting place. Marie Antoinette will always have spent her last night alive in the Conciergerie. These places only get better as more dust settles upon them. The history gets richer with each passing year and the farther they recess from the collective memory, the more fun it is to stumble upon these forgotten stories, to dust them off, to relive them.

The inescapable feeling that something happened here never ceases to astound me. That the course of history has been determined in the halls of Versailles or that modern codes of justice were discussed by Napoleon in the National Assembly are details that are often overshadowed by delicious pastries, good wine, or a stellar cheese. I often wonder if the bread and wine would seem as delicious if it were made in a town with less history, with less consequence, and with less allure than Paris. Think Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for example.

One day we'll look at the Place de la Concorde and think of Anne Hathaway throwing her phone into the fountain in The Devil Wears Prada and we'll remember it the way we do Audrey Hepburn's movies Paris. It will become history and it will enchant us. Whatever the case may be, the dust never goes away, it simply shuffles around, mysteriously to the main gardens of Paris, all too often. It can seem like you a know a place inside out, until you discover that so many facets and corners have been hidden under thick layers of dust just waiting for your inner ten year old to blow it away.

Hall of Mirrors at Versailles -- OLD

Paris Fail: Facilitating Bad Grades...

2011-04-13T00:09:00.001+02:00

Now I'm pretty sure I am getting this one wrong, but at first glance, it does say what we all think it says. Hit the books then hit the dance floor, right? Taking it at face value, I dare to call this a "win" except that my homework is piled up next to me and, well, I feel that the sentiment runs contrary to education.

I can just imagine that around 8PM the books close, the disco ball drops, and that sexy librarian becomes, well, a sexy librarian dancing on her desk. I think students would have a lot more incentive to get to study if there was a little Lady Gaga thumping and a smoke machine in the stacks. Just sayin'...

Market Day Musings: It Never Gets Old

2011-04-12T11:03:00.002+02:00

Typical market day

No matter what time of the year, though especially as it warms up, the markets are one of my favorite parts of Paris. Growing up in suburban Philadelphia, there was a healthy mix of agriculture in my diet. The family would go pumpkin picking in October. We’d get Jersey corn from roadside stands after visiting family across the state border. We often grew our own tomatoes and strawberries in the backyard, which worked until the rabbits found out. I even went to a summer agricultural science program at Penn State – talk about an experience.

Anyway, while the majority of our food came from the local supermarket, we weren’t confined to it.

When I moved to New York as a student, I thought it was pizza for the rest of my life. Instead, I have fond memories of walking through Union Square’s farmers’ market on the weekends. The fresh produce astonished me, and the prices were far from ridiculous. I learned very quickly – even though I was, fortunately, eating in a dining hall – that vegetables and fruits were not always sold in plastic wrap at the grocery store, even in the big city. There was another way.

Inexpensive, much?

Parisian markets have only enriched my fascination with fresh produce. Unlike the intimate farmers’ markets of New York or the roadside stands in New Jersey, the markets are not always pushing local produce. In fact, most of the vendors are merely salespeople for producers that sell wholesale at the Rungis market, just outside of Paris, said to be the largest food market in the world – a sort of modern day Belly of Paris for you Zola fans. The vendors do note where their produce comes from though, so a market regular will soon be able to distinguish instantly a French strawberry from a Spanish one.

While I love roaming the stalls at Belleville or the Marché d’Aligre, I was initially intimidated by the size of it all. And some of the unspoken rules of the market took a while to learn. In Belleville, you have to keep moving. In Barbès, you need to act fast and haggle when you can. In Aligre, you need to avoid the pesky caddies that seem to disrupt traffic at every angle. They are my biggest enemy in Paris, eliciting more anger from me than any other entity in the city, but, stills no market day would be complete without them. The local quirks of each neighborhood seem to manifest themselves in the vibe of the market.

Now I pride myself a semi-expert, with a large amount of work still to do. I have yet to tackle anything beyond produce – fish, meats, and cheeses. I’m just content wandering, looking for the cheapest bell peppers or the freshest looking berries. I’m happy tasting the slices of pineapple that various vendors cut for me. I smile every time I pay and get called chef (boss, essentially). It’s just another ritual that never gets old. Especially during peach season. Oh, and tomato season…and fig season…and…well, you get the idea...

CADDY ATTACK

Paris Win: Motown Philly, Back Again

2011-04-08T18:58:00.002+02:00

IT'S HERE

A trip to my local Monoprix supermarket this morning unveiled what, to many, can be considered nothing short of a miracle. If you're from Philly, you'll sympathize, especially if you were a fan of the old Nabisco-turned-Kraft factory off Route 1...I can still smell the cookies..

No one's feeling the cucumber or garlic ones...YET

Anyway, here in Paris, rumors have circulated that Philadelphia cream cheese has been making its way onto grocery store shelves, but my normal food spots that I like to visit didn't have it, aside from the overly-expensive Grande Epicerie that had imported the cream cheese or any of the "American" grocery stores that charge a first-born child.

Today, while I was looking disparagingly at some St-Moret cheese that I would have to use for a cheesecake, my eyes were attracted by an all-too-familiar logo. There it was, among all of the other cheeses, my beloved Philadelphia. In three varieties, no less. It's here -- the rumor's are confirmed. And as if the finding of such a wonder weren't miracle enough, the Philadelphia brand was actually cheaper then the St-Moret brand.

If Paula Deen doesn't convince you, I think the Aussies will charm you with their marketing campaign. You just gotta love it.

I bought three packs just in case Monoprix starts rationing it. I'm tempted to run back this evening to get the cucumber-flavored one to spread on my bage---er, on my baguette for breakfast in the morning...

---

Just a little trip down memory lane...

Just a kid at the Sorbonne...English Class Part 6: Americanization

2011-04-08T00:56:00.002+02:00

Not your familiar McDonald's...

English class seems to be winding down a bit early in the game, with attendance dropping sharply. Students are stressed with papers to write and internships to complete. This has not, however, halted some fantastic presentations over the past two weeks. My education on American culture continues as ever it could…

Perhaps the most striking lesson of the week came from a project on the film The Social Network about Facebook and its illustrious founder. I watched this film, half drugged, on a flight back from Philadelphia this Christmas season. I liked it. I found it insightful if not scathing. I really liked the presentation by my fellow French students, who revealed two major points on American culture that I never really reflected upon.

First, I got schooled on socialization in American schools. It is, apparently, a universally accepted position that nerds cannot talk to girls. I guess nerdy girls are condemned to a life of silence, in that case. But the ultimate social lesson was that “getting punched is typically American.” Spot on. I opted for contacts exactly for that reason.

Secondly, the students theorized about Facebook and its effects on the world. One student said that we have to think about the “Americanization of culture” and no longer the “spread of American culture.” I thought about it, and he had a good point going for him, here. I thought about the fact that nearly everyone in the class had a Facebook account and how they don’t really think of it as “American.” It’s in French, they communicate with their French friends, the applications are in French, etc. What about it would scream “American” to them?

When I see McDonald’s or Starbucks, I do think about the spread of American culture. But a closer look reveals that, honestly, McDonald’s and Starbucks are not the same here. It’s an oft-remarked observation by tourists. These institutions are not promoting the American portions or the same American flavors that are available in the US, for example.

Ever try to find a pumpkin-spiced latte in November in Paris? Impossible.

Instead, the local culture in these examples has been Americanized. But is it a French spin on American culture or an American spin on French establishments? Is Starbucks in Paris a “French café with an American twist” or an “American coffee shop with a Parisian twist”? It’s probably a mix of both. But it’s interesting to consider how thickly that veneer of American culture is applied over foreign cultures.

Well...not entirely...

While the influence of different cultures can be seen everywhere in Paris – German cars, Egyptian obelisks, Japanese sushi, Roman columns, British tea rooms – American is the superpower today that is nearly synonymous with globalization. Still, I always wonder if back in the first century A.D. if “Romanization” could have been coined for the same effect…

I often walk by the American Apparel store in my neighborhood and realize that I rarely see French girls dressed like girls in New York who shopped at American Apparel. French girls go there, they buy things, but it’s not pure consumption of American culture. Are they Americanizing their Parisian wardrobe or Fenchifying a bit of American style?

Again, it’s a hen-or-the-egg question. I’m thinking, however, of how much influence America does have culturally over other nations like France. We always think that Americans are shoving culture down French peoples’ throats. But I sometimes wonder if the French are secretly hiding in their cheeks and then, when we’re not looking, they spit it out and cut off the fat to consume carefully and stylishly the parts they deem most worthy.

After all, Parisians go to Starbucks but rarely take it to-go. Maybe they just like to change it up and have a caramel macchiato from time to time, but they still sit and enjoy it in the typical French fashion. Who can say?

Facebook is just another invention in the long history of inventions that has international appeal, but it doesn’t necessarily come with the same sort of force that Hollywood did after World War II. No one is forcing the French, this time, to embrace a bit of American culture, but they are consuming it and making their own.

Is that still Americanization??

Paris Win: I can has cheezburger?

2011-04-04T21:37:00.000+02:00

If you like potato chips, young kitten, then yes, you can has cheezburger. Lays in France has unveiled a wonderful new addition to the line-up of snacks that already includes the "Roasted Chicken with Thyme," the "Bolognaise," and "Mustard and Pickles" flavored potato chips. A staple for the picnic season, at least for me, Lays potato chips never cease to amaze me with their adaptations to local cultures -- Serrano ham-flavored chips in Spain, anybody?

Now, France, one of the gastronomic capitals of the world, has embraced the newest addition to the Lays family, the "Cheeseburger" potato chip. Don't ask me how, but it tastes like a McDonald's cheeseburger with the pickles, ketchup, and poor-quality beef all fried into one perfect crisp. What's the special ingredient anyway? Check the label, the third ingredient on the bag and you'll discover that it is indeed "cheeseburger flavoring." How's that for a secret? No, I jest, they do detail the spices and herbs that go into it, culminating in this bag full of savory and crunchy perfection.

I'm so happy that my local Franprix grocery store finally carries these delights. Picnic season just got a lot more interesting.

Paris Win: Spring has Hatched on the Canal

2011-03-30T09:15:00.000+02:00

New neighbors.

Living in the same place for almost three years can be daunting -- the same noisy neighbors, the same smelly fish sauce from the family downstairs, and the routine hammering can really grate on a person. It can wear you down and force you to start searching for a new apartment. After the fifth week of hammering, suddenly you think, "Oh, living in the 15th arrondissement doesn't seem so bad."

But then there are the perks. Amongst all of the Canal Saint-Martin's hype and well-publicized establishments, you find something that is your own. Every spring, the same family of ducks hatches a new batch of eggs and the tiny floating fluff balls paddle their way down the Canal. This is not another gushing article about this fantastic neighborhood. I know it's a great place to live. Apparently these ducks know, too.

Watching these little guys exploring the water for the first time coincided directly with my first Canal picnic of the year. We had some drinks with some cheese-stuffed breads from my favorite bakery. The season is on and, if I have my way, it will last until around October when I'll trade them in for hot chocolate in a cozy café.

People read and dream about Paris, about the Canal Saint-Martin neighborhood and its arguably epic restaurants, notably the pizza ones. But sometimes all it takes is a quiet evening with a Heineken, a sunset, and a floating brigade of brand new bright-eyed neighbors to realize how easy it is just to sit back and enjoy living in this part of town.

Even Stanley likes the Canal...

Keep an eye on them, Mom...

Paris Fail: Wedding Dress Cabaret

2011-03-28T23:19:00.000+02:00

The Moulin Rouge, the red windmill -- we all know it. Made famous by, amongst others, Nicole Kidman, the dance hall is something of a Paris icon. And what better way to celebrate your wedding than a photo shoot at the infamous cabaret where women once -- and still do -- take off their tops to make ends meet?

Iconic, of course, but, Lady in the Red Dress, let me tell you, to add the air shaft into the mix is borderline tacky. As if that red dress weren't already...

It's OK, his white suit just proves that you two are made for each other. Love is blind, after all. Congrats!

In Defense of Tourists...

2011-03-25T23:31:00.006+01:00

Stanley, you tourist, we're judging you...

Today, during the lunch break of my tour, I took a seat at my favorite coffee shop between the Comédie Française and the Louvre. Sometimes Seattle does a body good, especially when it’s free. As my tourists were off doing their business, getting sandwiches, heading to the bathrooms, the woman next to me asked where I was from. And, gasp, she asked it in English. The urge to look at her with a smoldering gleam in my eyes arose within me. There’s no way that this woman was speaking English to me at this café in the first arrondissement of Paris.

She was dressed head to toe in, well, clothing, but I bet her underwear was made of ignorance. I couldn’t tell, but let’s assume, just for kicks, eh?

But here’s the best part: her accent was marked. Yep, that’s right, I could tell that this lady didn’t come from

England

. And she definitely wasn’t from Australia. She said things like Y’all which not only means that she’s a total idiot, but that should be grounds for deportation, if you ask me.

She introduced herself as a visitor from Texas. I shuddered. I ground my teeth as I, rather thoughtfully, asked her why she was visiting. Her employer offers his employees a trip every year, and she chose to come to Paris with her granddaughter. Of all the nerve. I bet you she was going to take a picture in front of the Eiffel Tower, too. She might as well have slapped me in the face with these insulting remarks and notions of travel. She was daring to be a tourist in my city? In Paris, of all places? Appalled. Some people just don’t get it.

------

Taking your picture here = loss of street cred?

Sounds ridiculous, right? Well, it’s not pure fiction, sadly, for some people. Rest assured, this did happen without all of the tawdry self-important commentary. In reality, I was happy to talk to that lady for the five minutes that we sat next to each other. She was a curious traveler and she asked me questions. Ballsy, one might say.

Peter Jon Lindberg of Travel+Leisure a very important question in an article that was included in 2010’s selection of best travel writing. “Doesn’t every traveler start out as a tourist?” he asks. And it’s a poignant one. But that an American should even become a tourist is, let’s face it, a remarkable feat.

Only about 30 percent of us have passports, a number far inferior to many other countries. Admittedly it’s easy to stay within the United States, but going abroad is an experience that requires more effort. Those willing to take the plunge are commendable for taking a step in the right direction.

Coming to

France

, especially, with its overhanging cloud of American-hating, which largely doesn’t exist at all, is even more daunting for many Americans. Dreams of whimsical villas in Tuscany and pubs in

Ireland

are comfortable and friendly, but baguette-wielding Parisians, forget about it. “They hate us” is wasted mental baggage that so many tourists bring with them.

The real hate, however, emanates not from Parisians, and certainly not from the French in general. Dozens of trips to other cities and towns in

France

has proven to me that, in fact, the French are fascinated by foreigners coming to visit them. And Parisians, well, even many French people from the provinces will tell you that Parisians are just a separate breed. They are crotchety to everybody, but easily won over if you have enough time here to learn to play your cards right.

The real hostility seems to seethe from beneath the more-French-than-the-French attitudes of many in the large expat community here in Paris. Those who have left their nation behind for the allure of Paris seem to detest any reminders of their seemingly former life. But who amongst is not secretly hoarding a jar of peanut butter?

Starbucks? Forget it. McDonald’s? Gross. Speaking English? How horrid. Being sensitive to the fact that not everyone has the privilege to move to one of the most expensive cities in the world and experience it like a “local”? Out of the question.

Judging tourists who are coming to Paris and not conforming to an expat’s image of what a traveler should be, well, it’s elitist and, quite frankly, embarrassing. Who among us owns the gavel and powdered wig of tourists' motivations? Who gets to decide how we define experiencing culture? Expats brutally and ignorantly calling out another American for embodying the "Ugly American" stereotypes is the pot calling the kettle black in every sense.

When my parents first came to Paris, I admit was perturbed that they didn’t know how to speak French and I cringed when they said, “thank you” instead of “merci.” I thought that after one day in Paris, they should have gotten it. Only afterwards did I stop to think that it took me 6 months as a student here to find the ropes, let alone to learn them.

A French friend told me, during one of my rants, to calm down and be patient. I tried, and it was difficult, but I’m at that point where I understand that. I understand that not everyone can have the same immersion experience that I have had. The fact that my dad even listened to French CDs in the car before his trip was more than commendable. It was real effort. My first job in Paris put me in a French-speaking environment – it wasn’t really any effort on my behalf. I learned French because it was sink or swim. My dad was learning it in an effort to get into the pool at all. He didn’t have to take that step. He wanted to.

These days, I avoid tourists speaking English not because I don’t want to talk to them. On the contrary, when I meet English speakers out and about in Paris, I like seeing the different reasons that people find themselves in Paris. Trips, studying, living, loving – it’s fascinating.

I avoid approaching them instead because I know that there is a certain joy in wandering a city, in reading a map, in getting lost, and then in finding your way all by yourself. We’re Americans, we’re all about doing it ourselves and part of traveling is the discovery. I don’t want to steal someone’s moment by telling them where Notre Dame is. They’ll better remember their struggle and eventual success more than that snotty expat that pointed them in the direction.

But should anyone every sit down next to me and in a beautiful Texan accent ask me what I’m doing in Paris, I’ll tell them. The unseen fatigue, constant discomfort, and difficult experiences that tourists face can be so quickly alleviated by a few comforting or even informative words from a fellow English speaker, a person who was there, who started out as a tourist themselves.

After over two years living here, I’d still take the innocent and glittering glint of a tourist’s eye over the smoldering gleam of a seasoned and apparently hardened expat any day.

Jedi in Paris: Futuristic War Museums...

2011-03-24T10:35:00.001+01:00

War really isn't my thing. I can do without it. History, however, holds a special place in my heart. On family trips to any place that included a museum, like historic Jamestown in Virginia, my dad and I would stop and read each sign of each display while my mom and sister tapped their feet at the end of the exhibit. We were slightly compulsive about learning.

Paris is not short on history, and considering myself an amateur of warfare, yesterday I made a special educative trip to the Hotel des Invalides, home to the military history museum in Paris. Thinking I’d just see some canons and a few pieces of armor, I was blown away by the extensive royal collection of military artifacts from Roman times, through the middle ages, through the Revolution, and all the way up to the end of World War II. Not surprising, I suppose, for a war museum.

But it only got better.

Yay USA

In addition to some well organized exhibits detailing the evolution of French warfare, the museum had lots of multimedia that weren’t as superfluous as they could be. Additionally, almost every exhibit was in at least French and English, affording an accessibility that even the Louvre doesn’t offer.

I checked out Henri IV’s armor – he was a stocky guy. I saw what Louis XIII wore for protection as a child – poor kid. And I saw Napoleon’s infamous hat – it got me a bit misty eyed. But the real fun began in a relatively new exhibit opened in 2008 called L’Historial deGaulle dedicated to former president Charles deGaulle – not just an international airport, also one of the most brilliant French leaders.

The futuristic exhibit was something out of Epcot Center at Disney World -- or better yet, a command room in the Death Star. My dad and I also appreciate Star Wars when we're not reading plaques about battles or Native Americans.

In order to experience it you need to wear a headset that tells stories depending on where you are in the exhibit (in French and English, again). After a 25 minute video detailing deGaulle’s life and accomplishments, the exhibits go into even more detail about World War II, the war in Algeria, and the student riots of ’68 for example via interactive maps, projections, and media displays.

The trickiest was figuring out how to interact with each multimedia device without looking like an idiot. At one station, you stand in a circle and simply point to the screen so that the cursor follows your hand and you can click on one of several short video clips (see image below). I felt like a failed Jedi waving my hand around trying to learn about the student riots. I succeeded eventually. Yoda would be proud.

CNN?

After three hours in the museum I had gone from exploring medieval armor to pretending I was Wolf Blitzer in a CNN-esque newsroom, touching screens and digital displays, waving my hands as if Obi-Wan were instructing me. The contrast was not lost on me, but props to Paris for putting on an impressive show in honor of deGaulle.

For all of those jokes about the French being such whimps during war, the museum does a pretty good job convincing otherwise. And the curators even let you feel like a Jedi Knight while doing so. But for all of the interactive digital fun, royal armory, and brutal weaponry that I discovered, I missed the highlight – Napoleon’s tomb – before it closed. Golly, I guess I’ll just have to go back….

Not as easy as it seems...
...use the Force...

Me interacting with a legit talking head...
Darth Vader and the Emperor anyone?

The historic Louis XIV hospital-turned-museum

Infos: Free to EU residents, including abroad students, under 26 years old. Special temporary exhibits not included. 9 euros full tariff. Plan on entering no later than 4:45pm, though hours extend in the summer. The deGaulle exhibit closes every Monday. Even digital screens need rest…

Paris Fail: Bearotica

2011-03-22T23:23:00.001+01:00

Based on your fantasies, this statue of an apparent lovers' embrace could be a Win. A quick glance at this statue would lead onlookers to believe that this man was looking for more than a hug from this smiling bear.

If you are a child roaming the Jardin des Plantes trying to enjoy the sunshine and the new flowers, it's probably a Fail. You will be scarred. A closer look reveals that the bear is not looking for action, but actually revenge. The man has killed the bear's cub as it hangs from his pantless-hip.

Going to bed with that creature, especially with an awkwardly-placed knife in its neck, seems like punishment enough. Do you think they'll remove the dead cub from his waist before getting down to it?

If only the man had worn pants...

Props to pal Claire for the cheeky title of the post. We wandered the gardens all day and even caught a view of some sleeping wallabies in the menagerie. No live bears, but prepare for next week's visit to the orangutans...

Paris Win: First Days of Spring

2011-03-20T21:50:00.000+01:00

We made it. Through the winter, through the snow, through the ice, through the misery...

Spring is here. All Parisians rejoice together as the picnic season officially begins.

The city is awash with warm pink skies...

...friendly gastropod watering cans for sale along the Canal Saint-Martin...

...and lonely flowers that need watering at the Jardins des Plantes.

Welcome back, Springtime. I missed you.

Morning Rituals: Ephemerality...

2011-03-20T11:43:00.002+01:00

I already ate the cupcake...

Far be it from me to be a creature of habit. Being an expat allows me to live in short ephemeral moments that I usually bunch into two week increments. When your residency in a place literally has an expiration date, you learn not to get too attached to anything. The idea of planning beyond two weeks means I’ll write it down and pencil, never in pen, if I write it down at all. But one thing is constant and indelible. The morning ritual.

Wake up. Start boiling the water. Two spoonfuls of coffee into the French press. A heap of sugar into the mug. Pour the boiling water over the coffee, stirring gently, and then the waiting. The impatient waiting.

Meanwhile, cnn.com and nytimes.com replace the old dirty black and white paper of my childhood as I soak up the morning news with pristine hands. There’s nothing like airstrikes in Libya or another Charlie Sheen post to wake you up in the morning. The coffee might be ready. I push the press, forcing the dark liquid through the sieve of the press and I pour it over the sugar.

How do people start a day without a huge cup of coffee?

Then the tummy rumbles and it’s time for the other half of the ritual – trying to find a suitable breakfast. Lazy I am not, but heading down and then up five flights of stairs for a croissant every morning is out of the question. Instead, I improvise. It’s like a little game.

Sometimes there is yogurt. Suitable. Sometimes there are eggs. Yum. Sometimes I’ll even have bacon or potatoes for a real treat. This morning there were some left over rose-raspberry cupcakes from a friend’s birthday on Friday and a jar of peanut butter. It’ll have to do. I stuck some white chocolate in the cupcake for an added treat. It’s not quite Wheaties but beggars can’t be choosers.

I suppose there are worse rituals...

The morning process is one of those things that I allow myself to get attached to since it’s not dependant on geographic location. I've penned it in. I could be doing the same thing living in Portland or in Singapore. Still it’s an ephemeral experience, fleeting in the sense that eventually I’ll take a shower and get dressed, if I have to go to work or school. If not, I have another spoonful of peanut butter and kick back. A good morning ritual can easily last until noon, or even later, as long as the cupcakes last…

Paris Win: Things' Gettin' Hot...

2011-03-17T09:19:00.000+01:00

So now that spring is almost upon us, where can you get an "iced orgasm" here in Paris?

Gelati d'Alberto

12 rue des Lombards 75004 or 45 rue Mouffetard 75005

Try the Speculoos or the caramel au beurre salé gelato.

A great way to cool off when things get...hot.

Just a kid at the Sorbonne...English Class, Missing the Mark

2011-03-16T22:49:00.002+01:00

Photo taken post-class...

Yet another week goes buy and I realize how culturally uneducated I am in my own American heritage. Three presentations this week on three films that I have never – but probably should – have seen. The theme for this week’s films remains to be defined since the only common thread is, well, that they are all movies…

American History X was up first, a movie about neo-Nazis, in case you haven’t seen it. The students presented the idea of WASPs and immediately linked it to the film, leading us all to believe that WASPs were automatically Nazis. I think John Kerry. They think Nazi. Apples and oranges?

Further on in the presentation I learned how all Americans have guns because we believe killing someone is OK…in the name of personal justice, at least. It’s in the Bill of Rights, an indelible right, for the moment. So the conclusion, apparently, is that you can be killed at any time in America. It’s a “climate of fear” that we live in because anyone can have guns on them and Americans are willing to use them.

They should have watched Pleasantville instead. Now that’s America.

Then in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence, a not-so-classic western, I learned about the frontier. The idea of violence, justice, and a “might is right” attitude predominates westerns. I suppose that’s a fair assessment considering how the Bush administration went.

I remember my very first class in Paris back in 2006 when the teacher told me the most important date in American history: 1890, apparently the end of the American frontier. 1776 was barely a benchmark year in our history, right?

I did not grow up with westerns, nor do I recall ever watching one as a child. I still don’t get this French fascination with these types of films. They can just head down to the Camargue region of France and see cowboys – and flamingos to boot. Now that is fascinating.

Then a double feature of Vertigo and Psycho introduced me into the world of Hitchcock’s new camera angles, the vertigo shot, and the idea that happiness that comes only with money and marriage. Yet, curiously, no mention of the shower scene. Probably one of the most iconic murder scenes in film with legendary music to boot, and the students didn’t show it. But we did spend ten minutes discussing how all of the women were blond and submissive, a key element to American society, apparently. I guess the shower scene was deemed unsuitable to show during class.

In fact, to that end, no shoot-out scene in the western, no shower scene in Hitchcock, and no angst-ridden racially-charged scene from a movie about neo-Nazis. I wasn’t disappointed, but our visions of these movies were very different. I have an image in my mind even though I’ve never seen these movies in their entirety and clearly those ideas are not cross-cultural.

The bigger question was why was no one exploring the classic American films like Lion King and Ferris Bueller was just beyond me. And I’ve yet to see a monster, dinosaur, or alien in any presentation. Now that is what American movies and culture are all about.

Paris Win: Fruit of our Looms

2011-03-15T06:39:00.001+01:00

What made this moment even more endearing was the fact that she got up and waved at us, cheering a bit as well. You have to love the paparazzi effect. I walked a tour past the Air France building, just next to the regal gold-domed Invalides and a film crew appeared to be filming what we all thought was a Fruit of the Loom commercial...though I don't remember zucchinis being a part of these underwear ads -- it just seems inappropriate. Maybe the famed Veggie Tales have gone live action? In any case it's refreshing to see other people doing crazy stuff in the streets. It makes me feel less transgressive.

After fashion week and having my tourists spot Karl Lagerfeld, a giant strawberry can barely hold a candle, but we were still excited. Though apparently not as excited as the lady in the photo was to see us...

Paris Fail: Spell Check Your Allies

2011-03-11T09:13:00.002+01:00

The sun was just rising in the sky, warming the top of the Eiffel Tower. I was walking through the Champs de Mars, the large park in the shadow of the tower, minding my own business when I came upon a memorial. It looked like a small Egyptian temple with all of the cities of Europe marked on it. Paris. London. Amsterdam. and Brussels. Or should I say Bruxelles as it is spelled in French. Apparently the French aren't sure, so they decided to engrave both spellings on the monument. Spell check much?

I'm sure it's actually some homage to the Flanders/French divide in Belgium, but am I giving them too much credit?

Baby with kick-ass newspaper hat on monument

Temple-esque, no?

Just a kid at the Sorbonne...English Class, Tea and Krumpitz

2011-03-09T22:28:00.003+01:00

I learn more and more about American culture as the days go forward here in France. For example, this week the English professor corrected a student’s pronunciation in American English class. When the student discussed David Bowie, he pronounced the name with a long “o” like “Boe-ee.” I did not balk, but continued to listen attentively.

“It’s ‘BOW-ee,” the professor chimed in. As in famed American rapper Lil Bow Wow.

Meet the face of krump...

Now, I know David Bowie is English, but neither in Britain nor in America is he David Bow-ee. But I guess 25 years speaking English in an English-speaking country have clouded my judgment. What do I know?

As if class couldn’t get any more enlightening, my classmates presented their exposé on apparently renowned filmmaker David Lachapelle (pronounced the same in French and English) and his iconic 2005 film, Rize. Heard of it? Yea, me neither.

The film is about a subculture in L.A. whose participants dance something called krump. It’s a sort of pop and lock hip hop dance that originated, according the presentation, when clowns would dance the moves at children’s birthday parties. The film documents “krumpers” during their struggles and rise to fame, which culminates in a spot in Madonna’s “Hung Up” video. David Lachapelle is good at what he does, I suppose, from an artistic point of view, but I’d never put his films up there as representative of American culture.

I was confused. Sorely. In previous weeks we had studied Audrey Hepburn, Signin’ in the Rain, Woody Allen. The classics. Now, we were krumpin’. Far be it from me to critique an American subculture – by all means, that’s part of the American Dream. But that these students would choose such a small slice of American culture to taste, well, it fascinates me.

It didn’t help that every time my classmate pronounced one of the character’s names, I giggled. His name was “Baby Tight Eyez” who was some sort of novice krumper. But in an adorable French accent, each time the student said “eyes” it came out like, well, “ass,” giving a whole new image to Baby Tight Eyez.

Once I got over my giggle fits, I realized that it was in fact kind of admirable that these students tackled such a weird and obscure piece of American culture. Though I’m not sure how admirable it was when the only question that students asked after the exposé was, “Why was that dancing clown crying?” Inspired as I may have been, I’m not sure if I’ll be signing up for krump classes in Paris any time soon, but I sure am excited to continue my American education here at the Sorbonne…

It Started with a Baguette...New Friends in Paris

2011-03-07T16:28:00.005+01:00

The secret’s out. I have a new best friend.

It was a cold February morning. The sun was peaking out but not enough to warm my chilly fingers and cheeks. But then I entered the bakery with my colleagues to film a small interview with a baker and I met someone who's smile warmed me right up. Irina. My new best friend.

Irina: My new BFF

I was back by the ovens filming the interview, the air heavy with the scent of yeast, while she was in the storefront, doing her thing. Selling baguettes. Pushing the financiers. She came back at one point and our eyes met for a moment. “Bonjour.” It all began.

After about a half an hour, I walked up to the counter to meet Irina and to order a baguette. Her coworker had informed me that Irena had been at the bakery longer than any other worker, but her grandmotherly age barely showed. I said hello again and asked for a baguette. She countered, coyly, with a “what kind?” Brains and beauty. I asked about the different ones, and she told me the differences. So many choices of baguette. I chose, she smiled and handed me the goods. I handed her the money with a little nod. I felt like I should have slipped her a paper with my number on it.

After this final scene was shot, the mounting attraction and tension eased and we could talk like humans who had just shot a scene from Pretty Woman together. Irena explained to me that she was Polish. I said I was, too, distantly at least. But I came from America and I was studying at the Sorbonne. The bond was cemented. As we packed up to leave, she implored me to come back and visit. My classes were just up the street, so I assured her that I’d be back soon.

She even gave me the freshest baguette warm frim the oven...

During our total interaction of roughly fifteen minutes, Irina opened up to me in a way that so few people in Paris do. Parisians are known for being a bit introverted, but then again, what’s a Parisian? Irena was as much of a Parisian as I am. Both of us live and work here, but both of us come from other places. Her slight Polish accent was nothing compared to my American accent, but we got each other instantly. “You’re a foreigner, too? Let’s be friends.”

We both know the hardships of being a foreigner in Paris, just like immigrants in any city. We both also know the joys. Irena is surrounded by baked goods all day long. I tell people stories about Paris while walking around in the sunshine. Neither of us can complain. We share more than a common enemy (French bureaucracy), we share a common love of this place.

During every interaction, Irina could not stop smiling infectiously with those eyes glittering under that perfectly coiffed and colored hair. I didn’t know if she was smiling at me or if she was just proud that someone took interest in what she was doing. I wonder if she thought about the same things that I thought about, if her family approved of her moving to Paris. Were they proud? Did they miss her? Was this little filming a big moment for her? A sort of validation of her expat experience here in Paris?

I’ll have to ask her next time I head down to her bakery. And if I’m lucky she’ll slip me some of those tasty mini financiers.

(Photo credits: The lovely Stephen Mann and Amanda Rogers)

New York Nights and Paris Mornings...a Retrospective

2011-03-05T09:10:00.003+01:00

Late night flower run in Paris?

My friend Helen and I used to walk down St. Mark’s Place in New York late at night. We’d talk about nothing and anything and she had a tendency to get rather philosophical, which is one of a million reasons why I like her.

The bodegas in the East Village were always lit up, hocking their cigarettes and Ben and Jerry’s to a mixed lot of late night crowds. The colors of the bright spectrum of flower bouquets were always clearly visible behind the plastic drapes surrounding the store front. On St. Mark’s, the tattoo parlors proudly displayed their fresh and bruised body art on clients by hanging Polaroid photos in their windows taken just minutes post tattooing. Is it supposed to be that red? I always asked myself.

Helen once remarked that she loved New York because, in her estimate, only in this city could you get fresh flowers and a piercing at any time of night. And she was right. It was an observation that stuck with me and a reality that I sometimes long for here in Paris. New York was full of vitality and electricity that never died at night. Hungry mouths could always be fed and you never felt alone on the streets.

Corrinne Bailey Rae’s song “Paris Nights and New York Mornings” always confused me because people generally like it the other way around. New York nights are what many New Yorkers live for. It’s a city where 24/7 means 24/7, not closed from 2-7AM.

Paris has flowers aplenty. For 3 euros I picked up some daffodils just because I could. Cheap. Fresh. Beautiful. Walking through the city with a little taste of spring on a sunny Paris afternoon in March is still an experience, though entirely lacking in the dynamism of New York’s pulsating nightlife. Paris doesn’t pulse at night. Paris sleeps.

At 3AM the other night, I walked home with my friend Fiona on one of those long evening walks, the kind that so inspired Helen in New York. But Paris was different. Walking from Montmartre to République, there were no shops to be seen. No piercings to be had. And no glimmering lights to catch our eyes. Instead, there was just Paris and us. Our playground. Our stage.

Sometimes you have to create your own dynamism at night in order to get to the fresh coffee and warm pastries of a bright dawning Paris morning that make the sleepy nights worth it. So was it obnoxious to take our an I-pod and have a sing-along in the middle of the street? Probably, but there was no one there to stop us. That evening we were the only two Parisians in the city, a feeling that so few New Yorkers could ever experience.