Lesson #9: Embracing the risks and rewards of the world's unknowns--the ones so easily forgotten by the comfortable soul--requires little more than a backpack, sturdy shoes, and some extra pens and paper for the road.
____
"Taking Breath" was published in the Santa Clara Review, Fall/Winter 2010
____
Brianne and I arrived at the St. Denis metro in the 2nd arrondissement at 9pm Monday night, after I had eaten with my host family and decided against studying. I often, if not always, find good use out of the "you only live in Paris once" excuse when needing to justify lack of academic motivation. This night was no different.
Brianne, a fellow student from Virginia and my newfound travel companion and adventure seeker, met Adam a few nights prior at a bar in London. Adam, an American vagabond in his late 20s, was meeting us for some company. For what specific purpose this group of people was meeting at the St. Denis metro in the 2nd arrondissement at 9pm on Monday was beyond my knowledge.
She waved her hand through the air, and I turned to see a tall, burly man with wavy blond hair and blue eyes approaching us, grinning eagerly. Without hesitation, this man dove towards my face. His lips met my cheeks suddenly, almost knocking me over. He pulled back and grabbed me by the shoulders, arms outstretched, and boasted "Enchanté!" which loosely translates to "Hello, my name is Adam. And you must be Rachel! Pleased to meet you, Rachel." I thought for a moment that I had met this tall burly man before, perhaps in a previous life, and we were becoming reacquainted after many years of separation.
"This is such a great part of town. You've got to look around when you have the time." We followed him. "That right there is the Arc de la Porte Saint-Denis, built by Louis XIV to commemorate his military victories." He spoke with his hands and his knees and his chest.
Adam, I learned, is a Chicago native and has been living in Paris for eighteen months as an English-speaking bike tour guide. I have always wanted to take a bike tour with a bike tour guide, but did not insinuate that he issue me a personal invitation, as I speculated that Adam would not have appreciated such boldness so prematurely in our relationship.
He led us down various streets until we were interrupted by a perpendicular dark alley lined with prostitutes. "Don't take pictures. They can get aggressive." We followed him. This was the street of his apartment, which I then learned was our destination. My imagination stirred boundlessly and I could only think of the movie Taken and how I was about to be, in fact, taken. My apprehension grew as Brianne and I were led up eight flights of a narrow spiral stair case, and on the way passed a section blocked off by caution tape with a sign that translated as “undergoing investigation.” If we were going to be killed, I thought, which at this point seemed likely, I suppose the very top floor of an old apartment building on a prostitute street is the best place to do it. Brianne chattered casually with her new friend who had not stopped speaking with his hands. I was planning my escape.
The door creaked open to reveal a 2-bedroom flat dimly lit by hundreds of small white candles, jazz music lingering in the musty air. Another young gentleman sitting comfortably on a leather couch rose to greet us. He did not lunge at me with his mouth, which I was thankful for. He offered us slices of a rustic baguette with Camembert and poured 4 glasses of red wine. Adam retreated to the kitchen, and Brianne and I sat and talked with the new man whom I believe was very nervous, as he stuttered frequently. Mitch was currently studying in Paris at an institute for technology and architecture and living a few blocks up the street. We sipped wine slowly, letting the record player occupy gaps of silence, and he began to point out and explain the artwork scattered on the walls, which I had not noticed until this point.
A blonde head appeared.
“How do you guys feel about chopsticks?”
“What're we having?” Mitch chimed from his position on the couch. I was only waiting to hear a response along the lines of, "our guests," but the sizzling of a frying pan had drowned out Adam's ability to hear the question.
“Adam is an artist and this, this one is a painting of a woman with her left leg crossed ninety degrees across her right, but most people, when they see this one, think she is riding a camel. This was one of his first paintings. These are views from various places in the city—like that, obviously, is Sacre Coeur. See Montparnasse in the background? And this one I think is in the 14th. And this one here, this is an imitation of Van Gogh’s famous piece, but I forget the name.” Starry night, I thought. That one, I admit, was very good.
I began to smell aromas of Thai cuisine and my mouth watered.
The hundreds of vanilla scented candles, I found, were a gift from Adam’s mother that had resurfaced while cleaning out boxes, and were not intended for any specific purpose tonight other than getting use out of hundreds of unused vanilla scented candles. I quite enjoyed them.
We emptied the three bottles of wine that lay before us, our hosts assuring the ladies’ glasses were never short of half full, and finished two jazz records. Mitch brought out another loaf of bread, accompanied this time by a saucer of salted oil and vinegar. Moments later, a plate hot with steam was slid in front of my view—a well-portioned chicken dish liberally marinated in an orange tangy sauce (a recipe Adam had brought back from Bangkok) neighbored by seasoned potatoes, peppers, grilled onions, and tomatoes. And chopsticks. It must have been near 11pm when we began to feast, laughing and gulping and trading and pointing.
Brianne encouraged Adam to tell stories of his travels—the ones he had shared during their first encounter at the London bar when they spoke for hours over cocktails. The ones that had aroused in her the enduring fascination that gave us reason to be sitting and eating Thai food in the travelling man's apartment on a late Monday night in the 2nd arrondissment in the first place. And so he did share stories of his travels, and how he has known the corners of the world with his own eyes and ears and feet. He told us how he lived in Morocco with a man who worked as a fisherman trader and spent months perfecting the art of Italian cuisine at a cooking school in Rome. He shared stories in the most amusing way, often with his hand rested on his chest to control the frequent bursts of laughter, hunched over his knees, pulling us in closer. He told us about his nights dancing in Spain (he enjoys the company of Spaniards out of any other people), meditating in Bali and countries lining the eastern coast of South America, and how he learned to speak Chinese in Shanghai. He used his tongue to push mangled chicken to the side of this mouth and spoke in between gulps about his loathing for Australians, helping the helpless in Iran, feeling the sand of the Sahara between his toes, stories about couch surfing, dumpster-diving, and Parisian bike tour guiding…
My legs had turned numb when I realized I was sitting on the edge of my seat.
He told us, finally, about his plans to leave Paris—a city he has fallen in love with—and how he recently bought a one-way train ticket to Germany where he plans to rent a 5-bed room apartment in Berlin, to which he plans to invite anybody and everybody to join him and do art. And he left it at that and continued chewing.
Yes, I am safe with you, Adam. And now it is all clear to me.
I will come with you to Germany, Adam, and I will live with you. I will live in Berlin in your apartment and we will transform it into a studio and we will do art and invite others to do art. We’ll set easels up in various rooms and maybe we’ll cover the floors with tarp or maybe we won’t care enough. Some will draw and many will sculpt and music! Oh, we’ll have music. Guitars and saxophones and a piano—I will play the piano. We will spend our days there and let the light from the windows flood the white walls and I will write and you will paint and we will learn from each other. And perhaps people will come to the studio art apartment and want to live there with us and we will let them. And when everyone is done with their art I will tell you of the times when I thought I knew things and you will tell us of your weeks in Greece and Holland and Dubai and we will laugh about the seriousness that poisons human thought. And then we will admire our art and eat day old bread and cheese and maybe you can cook Bangkok orange chicken if you’re not feeling too tired and we’ll always have one extra wine bottle in the cabinet and we will live there until we don’t want to live there anymore.
I had dropped one of my chopsticks. Brianne kicked my foot and I looked up to see empty plates and the American traveling men perched on the balcony clutching glasses, waving at us to join. My chest heaved. I hadn’t been breathing until now.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The taste of pleasure.
Last Friday, I found myself among an overwhelming herd of people--a colorful blend of eager tourists, locals, spectators of all ages, and connoisseurs of nearly every ethnicity. Grandmothers, sons, uncles, nieces, friends, lovers, infants, French, Americans, Belgians, Chinese, Japanese, Russians, Moroccans, Algerians, British, Germans…
We waited together, stifling our anticipation--my excitement equaled by the 4-year-old standing at my side, who stood on her tip toes, neck protruding, gripping tightly to my leg—until we were finally assembled under one roof, united by one thing, and one thing only:
Chocolate.
Yes, chocolate.
Paris’s Porte de Versailles Expo recently hosted the 15th annual Salon du Chocolat, a festival celebrating one of earth's greatest (and most delicious) creations. Paris, one out of only SIX major cities worldwide to put on this chocolaty production, attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors each year, who all come to witness and enjoy the marriage between innovative cuisine, creative artistic expression, and shameless gluttony.
For a 12 Euro entry fee, the public could explore the two-story, 14,000 square meter arena lined end to end with hundreds of booths overflowing with specialty chocolate from top chefs from select European regions, along with recipe demonstrations and an educational timeline of the manufacturing process from the cultivation of cacao beans to the distribution of candy bars on store shelves.
They even had a musical performance. But that was nothing compared to the fashion show of chocolate dresses.
The most important part of all this, and one of the main motivating factors in my attendance of this festival, was the FREE SAMPLES. Samples tended to every palate, spanning along the entire spectrum of the sweet tooth's imagination. Some of the ones I tried ranged from the more mainstream treats--fudge, ice cream, truffles, éclairs, and fondue--to the more experimental creations: chocolate covered jelly beans, chocolate liqueur, etc. *Note to self--chocolate is good and liqueur is good. But the combination of the two is a disatrous mix. Chocolate covered jelly beans, on the other hand...magical.
Despite the inevitable stomach cramps, it was quite the experience--a true chocolate lover's paradise. Which gives me even more reason to believe that Paris knew I was coming.
Lesson #8: Your soul loves chocolate.
We waited together, stifling our anticipation--my excitement equaled by the 4-year-old standing at my side, who stood on her tip toes, neck protruding, gripping tightly to my leg—until we were finally assembled under one roof, united by one thing, and one thing only:
Chocolate.
Yes, chocolate.
Paris’s Porte de Versailles Expo recently hosted the 15th annual Salon du Chocolat, a festival celebrating one of earth's greatest (and most delicious) creations. Paris, one out of only SIX major cities worldwide to put on this chocolaty production, attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors each year, who all come to witness and enjoy the marriage between innovative cuisine, creative artistic expression, and shameless gluttony.
For a 12 Euro entry fee, the public could explore the two-story, 14,000 square meter arena lined end to end with hundreds of booths overflowing with specialty chocolate from top chefs from select European regions, along with recipe demonstrations and an educational timeline of the manufacturing process from the cultivation of cacao beans to the distribution of candy bars on store shelves.
They even had a musical performance. But that was nothing compared to the fashion show of chocolate dresses.
The most important part of all this, and one of the main motivating factors in my attendance of this festival, was the FREE SAMPLES. Samples tended to every palate, spanning along the entire spectrum of the sweet tooth's imagination. Some of the ones I tried ranged from the more mainstream treats--fudge, ice cream, truffles, éclairs, and fondue--to the more experimental creations: chocolate covered jelly beans, chocolate liqueur, etc. *Note to self--chocolate is good and liqueur is good. But the combination of the two is a disatrous mix. Chocolate covered jelly beans, on the other hand...magical.
Despite the inevitable stomach cramps, it was quite the experience--a true chocolate lover's paradise. Which gives me even more reason to believe that Paris knew I was coming.
Lesson #8: Your soul loves chocolate.
Will power.
Weekend mornings are lazy mornings. Everybody knows this. The pace is slow, the motivation is thin and weak, the sweats and slippers remain on, homework may or may not be accomplished, and sense of time is distorted-- nothing really "begins."
But this particular Saturday morning began differently, when Bridget burst frantically into my room to wake me up with an urgent message:
"I had a dream."
That's wonderful, Bridget. I'm in the middle of one. Goodnight for 3 more hours.
"No, no. You don't understand. Wake up."
In my delerious sleep rationality, I absolutely could not arrive at any line of reasoning whatsoever that would influence me to abandon my warm haven of pillows and blankets. What on earth, then, Bridget, could be so important?
"Ranch dressing."
...
I am showered and dressed within 15 minutes.
Despite its apparent initial triviality, to even sleepy Rachel, this is a serious issue that deserves undivided attention. Evidently, a significantly large sector of our lives has been lacking--the sector being, of course, comfort food (also referred to by us as "medicinal" food. Including, for example, iced coffee). This sector had gone relatively unnoticed until this particular morning, when the Ranch Dressing dream was elaborated in finger-licking detail.
So, since it is our personal duty to actively pursue what we want in life, our weekend morning had thus begun, and had begun with one single mission: find us some Hidden Valley.
This is not an easy task in Paris, France. As many will know, typical American food (peanut butter, Easymac, oreos, etc.) is not appreciated by the French. But what the French don't know is the power of the will. And, as the proverb suggests, where there is a will, there is a way to the American food store.
After 45 minutes of frantic and intensive internet and travel guide research, we armed ourselves with reassuring comfort and the giddiness of 5-year-olds. We know the store. We know the Metro stop. We're going to be eating Ranch dressing today.
Two hours later, we found ourselves as close to perfection as perfection can get--with two bottles of wine and two large, liberally Ranch-drenched Italian pizzas, seated picnic-style watching Le Tour Eiffel illuminate the darkening night sky.
Which leads me to another educational life experience.
Lesson #7: Don't take the little things for granted.
But this particular Saturday morning began differently, when Bridget burst frantically into my room to wake me up with an urgent message:
"I had a dream."
That's wonderful, Bridget. I'm in the middle of one. Goodnight for 3 more hours.
"No, no. You don't understand. Wake up."
In my delerious sleep rationality, I absolutely could not arrive at any line of reasoning whatsoever that would influence me to abandon my warm haven of pillows and blankets. What on earth, then, Bridget, could be so important?
"Ranch dressing."
...
I am showered and dressed within 15 minutes.
Despite its apparent initial triviality, to even sleepy Rachel, this is a serious issue that deserves undivided attention. Evidently, a significantly large sector of our lives has been lacking--the sector being, of course, comfort food (also referred to by us as "medicinal" food. Including, for example, iced coffee). This sector had gone relatively unnoticed until this particular morning, when the Ranch Dressing dream was elaborated in finger-licking detail.
So, since it is our personal duty to actively pursue what we want in life, our weekend morning had thus begun, and had begun with one single mission: find us some Hidden Valley.
This is not an easy task in Paris, France. As many will know, typical American food (peanut butter, Easymac, oreos, etc.) is not appreciated by the French. But what the French don't know is the power of the will. And, as the proverb suggests, where there is a will, there is a way to the American food store.
After 45 minutes of frantic and intensive internet and travel guide research, we armed ourselves with reassuring comfort and the giddiness of 5-year-olds. We know the store. We know the Metro stop. We're going to be eating Ranch dressing today.
Two hours later, we found ourselves as close to perfection as perfection can get--with two bottles of wine and two large, liberally Ranch-drenched Italian pizzas, seated picnic-style watching Le Tour Eiffel illuminate the darkening night sky.
Which leads me to another educational life experience.
Lesson #7: Don't take the little things for granted.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
La vie quotidienne
If you know me, you undoubtedly know my laugh.
If you know me, you also probably know that I frequently suffer from a serious, rare, undiagnosed case of:
The giggles.
And for some reason, this strange malady has decided to heighten its frequency and severity overseas.
The giggles, in case you are unaware, is both a blessing and a curse, characterized by an episode of sudden, uncontrollable, stomach-crunching laughter that can cause euphoria, dizziness, or sometimes even collapse. Strange looks and/or judgments and/or confusion from outside observers is not uncommon.
It begins with the slightest trigger: usually a random thought or memory, but sometimes a brief moment of objective self-reflection, like a snapshot of my body from a bird's eye view accompanied by a gentle reminder that--hey, Rachel, you know you're in PARIS? And then, of course, the giggles come, crawling up on me unnoticed with a force so undeniably powerful that no matter how tight i purse my lips or bite my tongue, I cannot suppress its wrath. A wave of laughter comes pouring out of my lungs like a tsunami and I have to stop and rest my hands on my thighs until it passes, waving along concerned passersby and in between gasps of air,
"Oh, no no. It's just the giggles."
There is no other way to explain it--especially not in French. And there definitely is no way to hide it--nothing in a fake text message or phone call could be that funny.
Upon much reflection, I have concluded that the reason for these frequent occurrences in Paris is because, well, I'm in Paris.
I'm happy here. Very, very happy.
How couldn't I be? When I have the opportunity, no, the blessing, to be able to do things like:
Tour Montmartre's Sacre Coeur--one of the most famous churches in Europe.
Lesson #5: During a cooking class in Paris, when instructed by a professional French chef to slice carrots vertically, do not accidentally chop horizontally, as you will be scolded in incoherent, angry French.
Visit Claude Monet's former house and gardens and witness the site where one of the world's greatest impressionist artists drew inspiration for his landscape pieces
Enjoy a jazz concert at Parc de Belleville while admiring a view of the entire city of Paris
Hop over to Munich, Germany and participate in the world-renowned Oktoberfest festival, also referred to by some as "Disneyland for Adults" -- a nickname that, after my last weekend's experience, I can personally fully attest to.
Etc.
I think you'd get the giggles too.
If you know me, you also probably know that I frequently suffer from a serious, rare, undiagnosed case of:
The giggles.
And for some reason, this strange malady has decided to heighten its frequency and severity overseas.
The giggles, in case you are unaware, is both a blessing and a curse, characterized by an episode of sudden, uncontrollable, stomach-crunching laughter that can cause euphoria, dizziness, or sometimes even collapse. Strange looks and/or judgments and/or confusion from outside observers is not uncommon.
It begins with the slightest trigger: usually a random thought or memory, but sometimes a brief moment of objective self-reflection, like a snapshot of my body from a bird's eye view accompanied by a gentle reminder that--hey, Rachel, you know you're in PARIS? And then, of course, the giggles come, crawling up on me unnoticed with a force so undeniably powerful that no matter how tight i purse my lips or bite my tongue, I cannot suppress its wrath. A wave of laughter comes pouring out of my lungs like a tsunami and I have to stop and rest my hands on my thighs until it passes, waving along concerned passersby and in between gasps of air,
"Oh, no no. It's just the giggles."
There is no other way to explain it--especially not in French. And there definitely is no way to hide it--nothing in a fake text message or phone call could be that funny.
Upon much reflection, I have concluded that the reason for these frequent occurrences in Paris is because, well, I'm in Paris.
I'm happy here. Very, very happy.
How couldn't I be? When I have the opportunity, no, the blessing, to be able to do things like:
Tour Montmartre's Sacre Coeur--one of the most famous churches in Europe.
Stroll through Le Jardin du Luxembourg in between classes
Attend a cooking class at the Guy Martin cooking school (yes, I made these)
Lesson #5: During a cooking class in Paris, when instructed by a professional French chef to slice carrots vertically, do not accidentally chop horizontally, as you will be scolded in incoherent, angry French.
Lesson #6: Don't publically display your severely limited cooking skills anywhere, just to be safe.
Cross off an item on my bucket list by j-walking the Champs Elysees
Think San Francisco's LoveFest fused with Bay to Breakers, and you have Paris' annual Techno Parade.
Attend a Mass service at Notre Dame conducted by the Archbishop of France
Enjoy a jazz concert at Parc de Belleville while admiring a view of the entire city of Paris
Hop over to Munich, Germany and participate in the world-renowned Oktoberfest festival, also referred to by some as "Disneyland for Adults" -- a nickname that, after my last weekend's experience, I can personally fully attest to.
Etc.
I think you'd get the giggles too.
Home, sweet home.
To keep accurate track of my study abroad experience, and since you already know all the many things I've been thinking, it's only fair that I relay the many things that I've been DOING.
I will begin with where I live. Hint: I don't actually live in Paris. In fact, the humble abode which I now call home is situated slightly southwest of Paris in a small city called Vanves. Vanves is
located in Ile-de-France, which is the term coined for the entire surrounding area of Paris composed of 26 different regions. There are approximately 2 million residents in Paris itself; in Ile-de-France, there are 12 million.
The area in which I live is quaint and very quiet. There are some great Italian and Japanese restaurants and a handful of patisseries that line the main street, and often times a flea market is set up in the main square that sells everything from fresh produce to children's toys to high-heeled boots.
My house lies on the top of a very steep hill, which, by the way, has contributed
to significant quad muscle building over the last month.
Through the front gate of the house is the garden, an outdoor table set, and flower pots perched outside every window. The house is white walled with two stories; on the main floor, a kitchen, dining room, and a livi
ng room with a piano, and a bathroom. Downstairs, the laundry room, office, and the parents' bedroom, and the basement.
Upstairs are 2 bathrooms and 4
bedrooms, 2 of which are mine and Bridget's. Quite the lavish pad, you might say. But don't be fooled, because remember, everything in France is on a smaller scale--meaning my bedroom here is about the size of my family's stove at home.
But this house is considered big, especially for the French, whose homes are typically smaller than those in the United States.
The family are some of the kindest people I have ever met, and have been hosting foreign students every year since 1987. The mom, Beatrice, is a highschool teacher, a singer in a nearby church choir, and a mean cook. The dad, Frederic, is an engineer at IBM who travels frequently all around the world. They have 4 children: the oldest, Camille, is married with a 4-month-old daughter named Charlotte, whom I unfort
unately have not had the pleasure of meeting/playing with yet. The second eldest daughter is also married, though I forget her name. The 25-year-old son, Thibeau, is a physicist and a singer in a professional choir who half lives a home, half lives in an outside appartment. I often hear him humming cheerfully around the house. And the youngest, Hermance, is my age who lives in a dorm at her university during the week and returns home for the weekends to relax and enjoy her mother's mean, mean cooking.
Speaking of food (again, of course), this brings me to
Lesson #3: Familiarlize yourself with cultural customs before eating in a foreign country.
After some awkward experiences during family meals, I was kindly introduced by my host family to traditional French table manners. This, if you know me you will know, was very hard for me to internalize, as I am inherently (and very stubbornly) American manner-orientated.
First, your bread NEVER goes on your plate; it belongs on the table cloth, regardless of how many crumbs it produces--a rule that dates back to the Middle Ages when the bread WAS the plate. In the U.S, after family dinners are finished and all the plates are cleared, upon examining what remains, my family members always get a good chuckle at the significantly more noticeable mess my eating habits have left behind compared to anyone else. So this new rule is quite relieving to me.
Second, your hands NEVER go in your lap; they belong in sight at all times.
...
If I can't put my hands under the table or in my lap...where do my arms go? On the TABLE?
Yes.
Each time I am forced to do this, a familiar tune rings in the back of my head--one that my grandmother created when I was about 8 years old that has, throughout my entire life, served as a reminder every single time I sit down to eat:
Rachel, Rachel, strong and able
Get your elbows off the table
This is not a horse's stable
But a decent dining table.
I can understand why slamming your elbows on a dinner table is considered rude and slightly barbaric so this new rule, even after so many formal meals, still seems silly.
Another strange custom: the French don't take naps.
In fact, they don't even have a word for nap.
Coming from a person who, since as far as her memory stretches, has reserved at least one hour out of everyday for some snooze time, this new way of life is difficult to get used to. When 3pm rolls around and I find myself disorientated, confused, aimlessly and ineffectively searching for a pillow, I'm reminded again that I am in PARIS, and that mid-day sleeping is not only a waste of precious time to be spent elsewhere, but literally doesn't exist.
Lesson #4: You can't feed the hunger of your soul when you're sleeping.
I will begin with where I live. Hint: I don't actually live in Paris. In fact, the humble abode which I now call home is situated slightly southwest of Paris in a small city called Vanves. Vanves is
located in Ile-de-France, which is the term coined for the entire surrounding area of Paris composed of 26 different regions. There are approximately 2 million residents in Paris itself; in Ile-de-France, there are 12 million.
The area in which I live is quaint and very quiet. There are some great Italian and Japanese restaurants and a handful of patisseries that line the main street, and often times a flea market is set up in the main square that sells everything from fresh produce to children's toys to high-heeled boots.
My house lies on the top of a very steep hill, which, by the way, has contributed
to significant quad muscle building over the last month.Through the front gate of the house is the garden, an outdoor table set, and flower pots perched outside every window. The house is white walled with two stories; on the main floor, a kitchen, dining room, and a livi
ng room with a piano, and a bathroom. Downstairs, the laundry room, office, and the parents' bedroom, and the basement.Upstairs are 2 bathrooms and 4
bedrooms, 2 of which are mine and Bridget's. Quite the lavish pad, you might say. But don't be fooled, because remember, everything in France is on a smaller scale--meaning my bedroom here is about the size of my family's stove at home.
But this house is considered big, especially for the French, whose homes are typically smaller than those in the United States.
The family are some of the kindest people I have ever met, and have been hosting foreign students every year since 1987. The mom, Beatrice, is a highschool teacher, a singer in a nearby church choir, and a mean cook. The dad, Frederic, is an engineer at IBM who travels frequently all around the world. They have 4 children: the oldest, Camille, is married with a 4-month-old daughter named Charlotte, whom I unfort
unately have not had the pleasure of meeting/playing with yet. The second eldest daughter is also married, though I forget her name. The 25-year-old son, Thibeau, is a physicist and a singer in a professional choir who half lives a home, half lives in an outside appartment. I often hear him humming cheerfully around the house. And the youngest, Hermance, is my age who lives in a dorm at her university during the week and returns home for the weekends to relax and enjoy her mother's mean, mean cooking.Speaking of food (again, of course), this brings me to
Lesson #3: Familiarlize yourself with cultural customs before eating in a foreign country.
After some awkward experiences during family meals, I was kindly introduced by my host family to traditional French table manners. This, if you know me you will know, was very hard for me to internalize, as I am inherently (and very stubbornly) American manner-orientated.
First, your bread NEVER goes on your plate; it belongs on the table cloth, regardless of how many crumbs it produces--a rule that dates back to the Middle Ages when the bread WAS the plate. In the U.S, after family dinners are finished and all the plates are cleared, upon examining what remains, my family members always get a good chuckle at the significantly more noticeable mess my eating habits have left behind compared to anyone else. So this new rule is quite relieving to me.
Second, your hands NEVER go in your lap; they belong in sight at all times.
...
If I can't put my hands under the table or in my lap...where do my arms go? On the TABLE?
Yes.
Each time I am forced to do this, a familiar tune rings in the back of my head--one that my grandmother created when I was about 8 years old that has, throughout my entire life, served as a reminder every single time I sit down to eat:
Rachel, Rachel, strong and able
Get your elbows off the table
This is not a horse's stable
But a decent dining table.
I can understand why slamming your elbows on a dinner table is considered rude and slightly barbaric so this new rule, even after so many formal meals, still seems silly.
Another strange custom: the French don't take naps.
In fact, they don't even have a word for nap.
Coming from a person who, since as far as her memory stretches, has reserved at least one hour out of everyday for some snooze time, this new way of life is difficult to get used to. When 3pm rolls around and I find myself disorientated, confused, aimlessly and ineffectively searching for a pillow, I'm reminded again that I am in PARIS, and that mid-day sleeping is not only a waste of precious time to be spent elsewhere, but literally doesn't exist.
Lesson #4: You can't feed the hunger of your soul when you're sleeping.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Rue Daguerre, 8:56am
A shop keeper rearranges his display of tomatoes.
Merci, and an exchange of brief kisses.
A fair-skinned lady in a dress far too snug for her backside fixes strands of hair in a store window reflection and the light turns from red to green.
Poor man, you sit patiently on your rug under your doorway in your rags and I have nothing that would satisfy you.
A butcher in a soiled apron stands behind a glass enclosure of slaughtered fish, exposing missing teeth with his head cocked back in a hearty chuckle.
Two small, elder Asian women wobble in stilettos and a boy races home with baguettes cradeled tightly in his arms.
A sturdy man of business holds his briefcase pacing quickly eyes turned up and doesn't notice the change of unforgiving pavement.
A deep voice barks LES CREVETTES, IMBECILE but the shrimp is already overcooked.
Free samples for early risers and lovers meet for cigarettes at the corner cafe.
In floral print and tassled bangs a wife helps her hunch-backed elder grandmother and she knows her time is near.
A careless hand flicks ash on my shoulder and aged cheese and fresh bread warm the crisp morning air.
8:57am
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)