what a riot

jean (10) & charles (7) taking full advantage of the sunshine, sacre coeur

As usual, this week has been filled with strange and lovely happenings, from the Paris By Night bike ride with my host sister’s girl scout troop, to a picnic dinner outside the Louvre last night. This is the second full week of above 60 degree weather in Paris, and the city seems to be shedding its skin, exchanging parkas and beanies for dresses and shorts. Every green space in the city is littered with the sun-seekers: natives and tourists alike, brazenly and joyfully ignoring every “Keep Off The Grass” sign.

Perhaps the strangest occurrence this week was what happened Wednesday night.

My friend Lily (of the Lily Theory fame) and I were cramming for our Thursday morning art history exam in her host mother’s 6th floor apartment that overlooks Notre-Dame. The coffee table was covered with class notes and the remains of our afternoon gouter (a full baguette, goat cheese and Nutella). As the sun began to set around 7, I packed my bag, wished Lily happy studying, and skipped down the stairs to the Metro, hoping to make it home by 7:30 for family dinner.

The station was filled with people, the entrance blocked by about 10 French policemen. It wasn’t uncommon for the policeman to patrol the metro stations, making sure that people had actually bought tickets. I ignored them and pushed my way through the turnstiles to the platform.

The boy next to me was sporting a bright red and navy Paris-St.-Germain scarf, in honor of the city’s soccer team. A policeman next to me turned to the boy.

“You should probably put that away,” he muttered darkly. “I’m a a fan, too, it’s not that. I just wouldn’t wear it right now.”

The boy glanced at his father, who nodded, before bundling his scarf and tucking inside his jacket. The metro arrived, and we all piled in. As was normal, there were no seats left, so I leaned up against the train wall, next to a young French woman in bright red lipstick and a seemingly effortless up-do. The metro lurched to a start, and we were on our way.

getting my hair decorated with grass. thanks, charles.

At the third or fourth stop, the train stopped, the doors opened, and a loud burst of noise broke my stupor. I craned my neck to see. Both platforms were flooded with dozens and dozens of men, at least a hundred, yelling and screaming at each other. They started throwing things across the train tracks, and within minutes, there was a full-blown mass fist fight on the platforms. Never having seen a single punch thrown in real life, I was torn between shock, fear, and pure excitement.

I turned to the girl next to me. “What’s going on?”

“It’s stupid. There’s a PSG game tonight,” she responded. “Those are the other team’s fans. They’re probably German. Damn Nazis.”

Ignoring the last comment, I pressed on. “Where did the police go? Why aren’t they doing something?”

She laughed. “They didn’t board with us. They just were just there to see us get on the train safely, and then they waved goodbye.”

“What? Why were they there in the first place?”

“This is the metro line for the soccer stadium,” interjected a man in a tweed suit. “Sometimes it gets a little rowdy before the game. But never like this…” The fighting was escalating. Some of the men now trying to board our car. An old lady screamed, pushing her way away from the doors, towards us.

“Well why aren’t we moving?” I demanded.

“They had to switch the trains off,” the man explained. “They probably don’t want one of those idiots falling onto the tracks and getting hit by a train.”

Minutes later, another shout went up. The French police force shoved their way through the masses, subduing the fighting, pinning the particular rowdy fans to the ground.

“Everyone off the metro! Let’s go, let’s go! Move it!” They herded us off our car. The blob of people moved forward, all together, up the stairs towards the exit.

Finally outside, I exhaled. The night air was fresh and breezy. I scanned the crowd, pushing my way out of the center of it. Ambulances and police cars surrounded the square. I turned to the girl, who was now holding the hand of the old lady who had screamed.

“Are you okay?” I asked the lady.

“She’s gonna be fine. We’re just gonna find a place to sit and calm down,” the girl responded soothingly.

“D’you need any help?”

“We’ll be fine. Thanks, though.” They disappeared into the crowd.

I turned away from the metro station, taking in my surroundings. I knew where I was, at least an hour walk away from my apartment, but it was a beautiful night, and I really didn’t have a choice. As I walked, I shook my head in disbelief and laughed, marveling over what was sure to make an excellent story.

Favorite new phrase: Du coup – literally means “of the shot”. Actually means nothing and everything. Can be used to mean “so”, “therefore”, “what’s more”, “also”, “and”, “as a result”, and pretty much any other conjunction/connecting word. Used liberally, this will make you sound quintessentially Parisian. Throw out “alors” and “donc” and try “du coup” on for size instead.

Example: Il y a un match de foot ce soir, et du coup, il y avait une grande émeute dans le métro – There’s a soccer game tonight, so there was a huge riot in the metro. (Duh. Doesn’t that happen before every sporting event?)

conversations, continued.

I present before you Exhibit A, in support of the Lily Theory (see below), courtesy of my friend Lily:

Host mom: “Here, Meera. Take it.” pushing yet another slice of just-baked cake under my nose.

Me: “No, no, I had two already!” 

Host mom: “Don’t be silly. It’s for you. Take it.”

Me: “I really can’t.”

Host mom: “It’s the last one. Just eat it.”

Me (taking the cake): “You’re trying to make me fat, right?”

Pause. Host mom: “Eh. You’ll lose it all right after you get back! Don’t worry about it.”

Notice, ladies and gentleman of the jury, that she does not deny the allegations of trying to fatten me up like a Christmas ham. Nor does she deny the fact that I am gaining weight.

*The Lily Theory*: French people aren’t as skinny as we think they are. They just fatten us up when we get here, therefore, they look skinny in comparison to us.

Favorite new phrase: être à fond sur quelque chose/être à fond sur quelqu’un – to be obsessed with something/to have a crush on someone. Often used in this household in reference to Downton Abbey/Prince William. 

 

 

an explanation for silence

Well, it’s been nearly three weeks since I last wrote. And though I am certain it’s only my mother who has been hankering for another post, I feel I should offer some sort of explanation for my disappearance. I apologize in advance for the dryness of this post, and fully permit you, dear reader, to skip ahead to the next one,  in which I will undoubtedly return to the hilarities and confusion of my everyday, including food, boys, and the time I went to a dingy basement comedy club in London last weekend.

your typical Study Abroad Office paraphernalia

Three months ago, I was sitting in my university’s study abroad office, attending a mandatory “pre-departure orientation session”. Among stern warnings to please not do drugs or get into federal trouble, we discussed the concept of cultural adjustment. There exist many versions of this curve, but nearly all of them involve a high “honeymoon phase” of being surrounded by the new and exciting, followed by a low period of cultural shock/homesickness, etc.

I rolled my eyes. I did not feel a need for this sort of warning. I’m a pretty easy going person – I’m not a picky eater, I like all types of weather, and I like to think I can get along with a fair variety of people. I’ve spent months at a time outside the US and felt that I was somehow impervious to this cultural adjustment curve. I foresaw a steady incline.

As it turns out, I am just a regular person, and was very much hit with a rapid expiration of my honeymoon phase, and with it, my desire to gush about my experiences abroad. Paris, albeit beautiful and magical, is not always an easy place to live.

shot from my own Sunday stroll today, pont d’Alma

During the Second Empire, Napoléon III commissioned a sweeping renovation of Paris, the Burnham Plan of Paris, if you will. To head up this grand task, he appointed the Baron Georges Haussmann after whom the renovation is named. This massive undertaking resulted in the Paris we know today, with its wide boulevards, grand building facades, and delicate parks throughout. Haussmann very much desired that Paris should be a place to “see and be seen”. From the outward-facing café chairs (see Buzzfeed à la Meera, item 10), to the countless park benches, to the large avenues dedicated to Sunday afternoon strolls, Paris remains the prime location for people-watching.

Toddlers sporting new Ray-Bans run past high schoolers toting Birkin bags, impeccably dressed young business-men and well-coiffed old ladies in designer sunglasses, scarves, and shoes. And on every block, gazing at the Prada loafers that pass, is yet another homeless person, camped out with a sleeping bag, an old  coffee cup , and a small sign asking for money.

Upon arriving, I was stunned by the amounts of homeless people in the streets, bus stops, and train stations of Paris. Paris is known to be the city the most lenient with beggars, so people come from all over Europe to camp out on the streets. Whole families sleep under a few sleeping bags, lining the streets by ATMS, grocery stores, and bars. And the people of Paris walk by, unblinking.

Avenue de l’Opera, Camille Pissarro. Post-Haussmannization of Paris

After a few weeks, I could not reconcile the beautiful buildings and monuments with the thousands of homeless people that surrounded them. I could not understand the beautiful, ever chic Parisians, who could walk by entire families begging on the street, and not give them a second look. In the city to “see and be seen”, the homeless are not even granted that.

At first, I tried to do everything. I would give spare change, an apple, my lunch, or try to talk and pray with people. Sometimes the offerings were warmly accepted with a smile and a hand on mine, sometimes it was practically ignored. The large majority of people on the streets of Paris are foreigners, who don’t speak French or English, so conversing with them is near impossible. But I quickly became frustrated, feeling guilty, and jaded, and just overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people I could do nothing for. These feelings clouded over my days, rendering me grumpy and homesick, and thus having nothing to write about. I began to understand that maybe the Parisians don’t ignore these homeless people because they don’t care, but because when they do look, they can’t help but care deeply, and it hurts. So they close their eyes, turn up their music, and keep walking.

As I’ve been reflecting, thinking and praying a lot these past couple weeks, I’ve had to relinquish this sense of guilt. I think God was trying to get me to realize that I am not the sole caretaker for the people on the streets, as strongly as I feel it sometimes. I can give what I can, change here and there, a sandwich. But when I can’t, I can give a smile, and a “bonjour”. I can acknowledge that, in this city that seems to see everything and everyone but them,  they’re not invisible.  Not to me, and definitely not to my God.

I’m still learning how to approach this poverty I come in contact with every day – how to react, how to respond, how to reflect. But I do know this: my time here is a gift. I am allowed – and encouraged – to enjoy it to the fullest, and not let it be marred by a guilt that is not mine. So, I’m learning to take back my time in Paris. Take it back and soak it up. Hopefully the upswing will be accompanied by a slew of witty blog posts and charming pictures. Or, more likely, awkward narratives and painful selfies.

Favorite new phrase: d’ailleurs : moreover, by the way, besides.

buzzfeed à la meera

As arrogant as it may have been, I thought I knew a lot more about French culture than I did before arriving here almost six weeks ago. I was pleasantly surprised to find that there were many things that I didn’t (and still don’t) know about everyday life in Paris. Here are my top ten fun facts about Paris, which you may or may not have known previously.

Disclaimer: I apologize if I am generalizing too broadly, most of my exposure to “real French life” exists in my small circle of my host family and university.

une trotinette – fun for the whole family

1. Razor-esque scooters are considered legitimate forms of transportation. Plenty of Parisians, from middle-aged people going to work, to whole families enjoying a ride on a Sunday afternoon, use these trotinettes instead of bicycles. Today, I even saw a tiny rack where you could lock up your scooter.

2. Downwards escalators are generally considered a waste of space. In the majority of train stations and large department stores, downwards escalators are nowhere to be found! A rather disappointing piece of news for my lazy self, but I convince myself that I’m walking off the calories from my latest gouter.

3. A traditional French place setting has the forks and spoons face down on the table. I was helping my host mom set the table the other night, and I asked her about it. She said it’s considered more refined, and was disappointed to see that some restaurants had stooped to place forks and spoons face up next to the plates.

4. Bread does not deserve its own plate. My host siblings all give my plate sideways glances at dinner when I forget to put it on the table and leave it in my dinner plate. At breakfast and snack-time, which feature mainly toast, we don’t use plates at all!

5. Floss is not that big of a deal. Either French dentists have different opinions on what’s necessary, or my host sister doesn’t see her dentist regularly. When I asked her the French word for floss, showing her mine, she picked it up and exclaimed, “What is that? It’s like a little string! And you clean your teeth with that? Strange. They must get really clean though, right?”

ready for my close-up

6. You can take official government ID photos in a photo booth. Called Photomatons, these photo booths are conveniently located in nearly every major metro stop, and print five standard-issue ID photos for you. The booth is complete with a velvet curtain, detailed instructions about exposing your ears and not smiling, and it costs only 5 euros. It sure beats having to go all the way to CVS to get them done. My host sister explained that nearly every form you fill out in France requires one of these official photos, so they found a way to make it more convenient.

7. Dijon mustard is considered essential at lunch and dinner. In fact, at traditional French restaurants, you will often find a small pot of mustard sitting in the middle of the table with the salt and pepper. Forget the Sriracha, Old Bay, chili flakes or oregano – mustard is Paris’ must-have condiment.

8. Windows in offices and houses get opened every day, regardless of weather. Every morning, all the windows in my host families’ house are opened, and usually stay that way until lunchtime. It’s the same for classrooms and offices. I think it’s supposed to keep the air fresh and circulating, but all I can think of is my need for a few blankets.

9. The cold is also no excuse for not sitting outside at a café. Winter or summer, outside nearly every café in the afternoon, you will see clusters of couples, colleagues, and Cool French Girls having a coffee and a cigarette at the outdoor seating, all bundled up in big coats, face-obscuring scarves, and beanies. There’s a café on my way home that has heat lamps instead of table legs – that’s my kind of café.

10. Café seats all face one direction. So long to the American angst of sitting at a two-person table, directly next to your companion. All the outdoor seats at cafés and restaurants face outwards towards the street, even if there are multiple rows of chairs and tables. Whether it’s to save sidewalk space or allow for maximal people-watching, I’m not sure. All I know is I dread the day when I trip and fall face-first on the sidewalk in front of some Cool French Girls, age 15, smoking at a café.

Since I didn’t take any of these photos, I will do my middle school library teacher proud and cite my sources. I know you were all waiting with bated breath to see where I found the picture of that super cool scooter.

1.http://www.stephanegillet.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/trotinette.jpg

2.https://meerarebecca.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/a9740-philippestarckboothchatelet-picjeanpierrepoulet.jpg

3.http://lbpost.com/images/sarah/3ParisCafe.jpg

dinner conversations

Louis (14) , passing me the bread: Here you go, princess.

Benoit (16), smirking: Princess Ed. Perfect.

Me: Okay, then, what can I call you?

Benoit, grinning: Mr. Muscle. Cause I’m super muscley.

Me: Right…

Benoit: How do you say that in English?

Me: Well, you could say, “I’m very strong”, but if you want the more slang way to say it…

Benoit: Yeah, slang! Tell me.

Me, laughing:  Well we would say “I’m jacked”.

Benoit, flexing: I’m jacked. Yeah, I’m JACKED. Flexes some more.

He turns and whispers to his 7-year old brother.

Charles (7): Hey, hey! Marie-Astrid! Marie-Astrid!

She turns.

Marie-Astrid (18): What’s up?

Charles, grinning proudly: I’m Jack.

in (and out of) bruges

classic Bruges: the Venice of the North

I learned a lot of things this past weekend. I learned the difference between a Brussels waffle and a Liège waffle, and that neither are what we think of as a “Belgian waffle”. I learned how to say  “street” and “bakery” in Dutch, (straat and bakkerij, respectively). I learned that I’m pretty bad at reading maps, have no appreciation for fine Belgian beer, and play a mean game of Egyptian Rat Screw. I also learned that I am full of half-baked ideas.

half-baked Sally with her first brew

Friday night, my friends and I sat in the warm bar that served as the lobby to our hostel in Bruges, discussing our plans for the next day. I remembered reading somewhere that Bruges was about an hour bike ride to the beach, and presented the idea to them. I had never looked at a map of Belgium, nor did I know anything about the beaches in Belgium. But, like I said, I’m full of half-baked ideas. Having no other major plans for tomorrow, they agreed.

Saturday morning, we woke to a gloomy sky. We ignored the weather and decided it was Beach or Bust. We made a quick stop at the Saturday morning Markt to grab some provisions for our picnic on the beach. I was in charge of the cheese.

cheese shopping: my favorite type of shopping

After stuffing Elisa’s backpack full of sausages, chicken, baguettes, cheeses, and pastries, we marched down to the hostel lobby, asked for four bikes, and directions to the beach. The guy working the front desk assured us that it was an easy ride, not long, and nearly impossible to get lost on. “Just follow signs for Zeebrugge,” he reminded us. Embracing the recklessness so often ascribed to our age group, we set off.

Other than managing to hit a (parked) car within five minutes on the bike, I soon felt at ease and settled myself into the bike seat for the hour-long journey, cheeses and pastries dancing in my head. “I think we’re almost there!” I called to my friends thirty minutes later. We soon lost track of the signs for Zeebrugge, winding through office parks, highways, and country roads, with no sign of the beach.

miles of belgian farmland

Two hours after our departure, we found ourselves in a forgotten Belgian village outside the local diner. We peered in, debating entering to ask for directions. The diners peered back. After a few minutes of hemming and hawing, I shook my head, and hopped off my bike. “Let’s just do it,” I decided confidently, ignoring the confused stares of the construction workers who were finishing their lunch inside.

“Excusez-moi, Madame. Vous parlez français?” The waitress nodded. “Un peu.” “We’re trying to get to the beach.” She laughed. “You can’t get to the beach here.” “You can’t? We’re looking for Zeebrugge.” More laughter. “This is Zwankendamme.” “This is what??” I spluttered. “Zwankendamme,” she giggled, “Zeebrugge is that way. Just keep riding and turn at the Chinese restaurant. Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes – a mile and a half, maybe”. Despite my serious doubts about the existence of a Chinese restaurant in an obscure Belgian town, I assured my friends that the end was near.

the north sea

Close to forty-five minutes later, a tiny pink Chinese restaurant came into view and we found ourselves looking at the North Sea. There was little celebration as we tumbled off our bikes and broke into the baguettes, legs wobbly, fingers frozen, and rear ends numb. It had taken over two and a half hours to get to where we were.

“Now…we just have to bike back.” It took every ounce of determination to climb back on the bikes. The ride back began with unrelenting winds that forced us to double over the handlebars just to keep moving. The winds gave way to warm sun, which was later accompanied by a decided rainstorm. The next two hours were undoubtedly some of the most physically and mentally challenging hours of my life. I had to repeatedly argue myself out of trying to hitchhike back to Bruges, and settled instead for singing to myself – loudly.

We were all but ten minutes away from the hostel, when the sky darkened, and the rain turned to hail – with stones as big as grapes. I couldn’t help but burst into a delirious cackle. We hobbled into the bar, gasping with laughter, soaking, and unable to sit down without wincing. It was definitely time for a waffle.

a well-deserved waffle (neither Brussels or Liège, in fact).

Favorite new phrase: vas te faire cuire un oeuf – Literally translates to, “Go cook yourself an egg”, but means something along the lines of “Get lost”. Unclear as to how impolite this really is, so don’t use it in French class until further notice.

the first day

“Oh, so you start school today?” inquired my host dad this morning, surprised that I was up early enough to eat with my host siblings before they left. “Yeah!” “Well, good, it’s about time you started doing some work!” he chortled. 

And with that benediction, I headed off in the direction of the 6th arrondissement. My first class was actually one at my program center, so I had nothing to worry about as I pressed the buzzer and entered into that now-familiar courtyard.

The class’ name is “French Painting of the 19th Century: The Academism of the Expression of Individuality”. As a chemical engineer, this class was a welcome respite from things like “Transport Phenomena II” and “Introduction to Chemical and Biological Process Analysis”. The class is taught by a middle-aged French professor named Nicholas, with strangely long legs, a gentle smile, and a very measured way of speaking.  Monday classes will be held in the classroom, while the Thursday séances will be held at various museums around the city.

the famous Sorbonne

The professor finished his lecture precisely at 10:30, and I skidded off to my next class at the Sorbonne, taking a shortcut through the Luxembourg gardens (woe is me). The Sorbonne was founded in the 12th century, and the behemoth you see to the left has been standing since the 1600s – not intimidating in the slightest.

After having to sweet-talk the guard into letting me in without a Sorbonne student ID (those get here next week – I hope), and getting appropriately lost in the echoing hallways of that ancient institution, I found myself in the TD for my history class: “Paris from 1660-1789: Ways of Life”. TD stands for travaux dirigé, which is like the recitation section for the main lecture, which is called a CM, or cours magistral. The majority of the TDs begin with a student exposé, in which a student essentially teaches on the assigned topic for 10 minutes, with the teacher filling in or continuing after he/she is done stammering and stuttering through French history, literature, or psychology.

This being the first day, Professor Le Person (I know.), an energetic younger man, taught a high-speed introduction to the course, centering on the development of the different neighborhoods of Paris. The classroom was about as wide as a closet, and as long as a ship, and I found myself sitting all the way in the back behind a rather tall, incredibly well-dressed French guy. At that distance, the board was about as useful as an abstract painting, so I had to rely on my fickle oral comprehension skills. Ten minutes into the class, I was forced to pull out my phone and start recording the lecture. The kids around me were taking notes that were the length of an eighth Harry Potter, and I had barely written half a page. I must’ve missed something. Despite the shock of my first real French class, the professor was engaging, fun, and I actually learned a lot.

My next class of the day started exactly when the previous one ended, but it took place four blocks away, at the Research center. In a small attempt to make it seem like I’m not completely blowing my major off in a sea of Van Gogh and the Black Plague, I signed up for a second-year programming course: Introduction to Java.

la maison de la recherche – sorbonne

After getting lost a few times, I pushed open the door to a classroom in the Sorbonne’s research center, hoping it was the back entrance to a large lecture hall. To my horror, I found myself at the front of a teeny computer lab, face to face with a portly Frenchman with a magnificent toupee. “Miss, do you have a good reason why you’re late?” he demanded, to the snickers of the class. I shook my head, already deciding that I was not going to return to Introduction to Java next week. “I’ll let it slide this time, but I won’t let it happen again. What’s your name? You’re not on my list.”

“Ah, actually, sir, I’m an American student, and my program won’t officially register us until next week.” And with that short sentence, I had placed a target on my forehead. “Ohhh you’re American. I see. Well that’s still not a good reason for being late.” More chuckles from the class. The rest of the class passed with more targeted questions and comments in my direction, but he seemed to sense the look of terror on my face and softened up a bit. He then ended class twenty minutes late, to which I would like to respond that being French is still not a good reason for being late.

Favorite new phrase: C’est de gateau – a French idiom of the same sentiment as “Easy as pie” – as explained by my 16 year old host brother in regards to his physics exam.

un petit goûter

Well, here I am, counting down the minutes until 7 pm – dinnertime. Usually, one of the kids will pop their heads into my room, announcing that “on va à la table”, or I will meander into the kitchen myself to see if Madame needs any help finishing up. Sitting here, hungry after my last day of orientation classes, it seems like the best time to approach the long-awaited subject: food.

a burger and milkshake, please

Whenever I talk to someone from home, asking how I’m doing and what delicious things I’ve eaten comes in the same breath. “Meera! How are you? How’s Paris? How’s the food??” Well, let me answer that: I’m great, Paris is beautiful, and the food is just as fantastic as I imagined. (Not that that quenched my excitement to try Paris’ most famous American-style diner: Breakfast in America – see selfie with the Heinz ketchup)

In fact, it’s almost too fantastic. My friend Irem and I have had to institute a strict Two Goûters A Week rule, that we have already broken countless times. A goûter is a childish way of saying “snack” in French. I first heard the word at home, when my host mom would offer my host siblings and me some toast, a slice of cake, or a mug of something warm to drink after school. Then, the word started to creep into my vocabulary, and then that of my friends. Soon enough, after class every day, Irem and I would walk out of the building, turn to each other, and say, “un petit goûter?” like we hadn’t been thinking about it for the past two hours. These little snacks were usually pastries, éclairs, or little cakes from the nearby bakeries. One afternoon snack turned into two, or three. To avoid ballooning up and fulfilling the French stereotype of “fat Americans”, we tried to limit the snack intake. Like I said, it’s not going too well. C’est la vie.

breakfast

Aside from the incessant snacking, I still manage to have room to eat the other three meals. Breakfast at my host family’s house is casual, each person coming and taking their own breakfast when they wake up. The night before, my host mom lays out a place setting for everyone, along with all the necessary items for making breakfast. This first meal, as in most French families, is fairly small, consisting of a hot drink like tea or hot chocolate, with a slice of toast.

a strict all-bread diet

Lunch is usually eaten out with friends. In just two weeks, I’ve gone through many phases of what I like for lunch. Crepes and galettes (whole-wheat savory crepes), I discovered, are usually too heavy for my lunch, and if you try and order a sandwich anywhere, it is takes up the length of a full baguette – around 2 feet long. Forget the five dollar foot-long. As delicious as the crepes and paninis are, I’m usually left feeling like I need to be rolled down the street to my next class. So instead, I’ve decided to bring an apple and cheese with me every day, and eat them with a fresh baguette, which I can purchase for a whopping 43 cents. It’s actually not uncommon to see people eating just baguettes for lunch. (Stereotype: affirmed). At first I thought it was ridiculous, but baguettes are delicious, cheap, and pretty light compared to the other lunch options.

After having avoided (or not) the temptations for a petit goûter after class, we have dinner at home. Dinner, regardless of how busy everyone is, is a four-course affair. Most French dinners include a hot entrée, a cold plat, cheese (rightly its own course), and dessert.  Last night my family had a ham quiche, followed by salad, then cheese and tiramisu. Once or twice a week we’ll have a sweet dessert like tiramisu, and if not, it’ll be yogurt or applesauce instead. 

Lily, Irem & Jill goofing off at a café in Tours this weekend, probably a little pompettes.

Eating here is an adventure, most of the time delicious, often novel (like the wild boar  or foie gras I ate last weekend), and always in the company of friends. By Monday this week, I had already had my two allotted goûters for the week, and I don’t foresee them being the last. Thankfully,  I don’t know where these skinny French people hide the weighing scale. 

Favorite new phrase: être pompette – to be tipsy. Don’t go getting any ideas, Mom, I just like the way it sounds.

the american smile

At our first meeting on the first day of orientation, one of our program coordinators was giving us tips for living in Paris. “Carry a bag with a zipper. Always say bonjour when you walk into a store or restaurant. And for goodness sakes, stop smiling all the time.” She then proceeded to imitate a young American, smiling and giggling at everyone she passed, and exclaiming anytime she saw a pretty building or someone carrying a baguette. “No. Do not do that.”

coffee with Jill – classic American smiles

After a week here, I can already understand why. The French have mastered the art of cool. In public, they don’t really acknowledge other pedestrians, and they avoid eye contact on the metro at all costs. Smiling at everyone like Pollyanna is like wearing a sign that says, “Hi! I’m American. Feel free to: a) pickpocket me b) hit on me  or c) all of the above.”

view down my street

I’ve been working on my cool French girl face. As you can imagine, this is not going well. These past few days, I’ve actually laughed out loud when I’m walking down my new street, because I’m so excited to be here. Or, I’ll be concentrating so hard on looking cool, that I will trip up the stairs from the metro, narrowly avoid getting hit by motorcycles, or get completely lost. I have to actively try not to break into a big American grin when I see a pretty balcony, a toddler jabbering in French, or a man carrying multiple baguettes.

selfies with la tour Eiffel – not French Girl Cool

I had been getting so used to wearing my Cool Girl expression that going to church on Sunday was a shock. My friend Elisa and I wandered carefully into the Hillsong Paris church, only to be greeted by  exclamations of “Bonjour, bienvenue!” and big “American” smiles.  The bilingual service was loud and joyful, with people singing and dancing during the worship songs, greeting each other with more smiles and kisses, and cheering and clapping when the pastor made a point that hit home. After a week surrounded by the terse nods and the curt “Pardon“s on the metro, this was a wonderful reminder, that even the chic Parisians are filled with joy and dancing in the presence of this great God. (Not that that stopped us from putting our Cool French Girl faces right back on after leaving the church).

sacre coeur – or as i like to call it, the taj mahal of europe

Later that day, I was wandering home alone after touring Montmartre and Sacre Coeur with my professor and a few friends, two portly men stepped in my path, raising their eyebrows at each other. “Oh, mademoiselle, t’es si jolie! Si jolie! Magnifique!” Flattered as I was, I did my best to keep staring straight forward and not make eye contact. They kept throwing compliments at me, and I kept my Cool Girl face intact. Just as I passed though, one guy yelled, “You could work on your smile a little, though”. I had to bite my  lip to keep from laughing. If only he knew.

Favorite new phrase: C’est nul – That’s rubbish. Useful for meeting British boys. Or French boys. Just not the creepy kind.