berce mon coeur // cradle my heart

Your worst disappointments always stem from your greatest expectations. I speak, of course, of Laduree.

Laduree is one of the most famous bakeries in Paris, known especially for their macarons. I haven't been able to confirm it, but I have heard that they provided said delicacies for the movie Marie Antoinette. I suppose that that should've been my first sight--Things That Look Good® tend to taste like shit compared to their more rustic, home-baked cousins.

I went to Laduree for the first time in mid-September, a Madwoman on Mission for Mouthwatering Macarons. You know how some women waffle over which pair of shoes they want to wear? Well, I do that when faced with a choice of pastries, except I'm worse. It took forever, but I eventually decided on the macaron with the caramel au beurre salé. (I am a woman of immense faith, you see, and I was convinced that salted butter caramel could make anything taste better.)

Imagine, then, the sheer despair that overcame me when I bit into that macaron, expecting heaven and being confronted instead with a stale and oversweet monstrosity. I experienced my first true heartbreak that day--even worse than the disappointment I felt upon discovering that Magnolia Bakery in NYC sold dry cupcakes.

But you see, I am a sucker, easily swayed by pretty packaging and whispered promises. And so, a month later, with M. from Princeton's friends visiting, I took the opportunity to go there again. Despite having been burned in the past, I stepped through its green doors with hope in my heart.

Knowing better than to pay 1.50 Euro for a measly pastry the size of a half dollar, I (very logically) gave up an arm and a leg to try out one of their bigger pastries. M. from my university did the same so that the two of us could each sample two different desserts.

I guess I should've known. My pastry came to me in a pretty green box, further protected from the weather by a plastic bag. Upon opening the shiny lid, I was confronted by the comforting sight of chocolate and coffee pastry cream. Eating said pastry (I forget its name)....that was a disappointment. There was a brief moment of clarity where I realized that at least 80% of the 7.60 Euro I paid for the confection went to the Department of Making Shit Look Good.

But I can only be fooled so many times, Laduree. I have some friends visiting soon, and so I will probably be suckered into visiting your establishment again. This time, however, I will be strong and resist your siren's call. I will fortify myself against your sugary charms with a ton of chocolate before venturing into your territory. Never again, Laduree. We are over.



On an unrelated note, a Frenchwoman who is on a perpetual diet asked me for my Chocolate Espresso Torte recipe. I guess that means I win at life?

Up next: Paris as a Tourist Destination, or How T. Will Take the Opportunity to Document and Photograph Touristy Places that She Should've Done the First Time Around

tâche d'être heureux // try to be happy

I haven't cooked too much lately, mainly because I've gotten a) busy, and b) lazy. I've also been willfully eating like shit for the past two weeks. Oops.

That said, I made this for dinner:

Sweet soy glazed chicken and onions on a bed of steamed broccoli.

I actually wasn't a big fan, despite the fact that it came out looking delicious. One of the few times food blogs have led me wrong.

To make up for this pedestrian effort, I made Chicken Cacciatore the next day. It is a stew with tomatoes, mushrooms, zucchini, red bell pepper, and...chicken. It was much more delicious and satisfying, but does not photograph anywhere near as well.

And comme d'habitude, I made enough to last a week. Or at least three days.

la vie n'est pas un théâtre // life is not a play

I forget sometimes that Paris is a large city and therefore potentially dangerous.

Despite the impersonal reserve of Parisians, the city is set up so that you always feel as though you are walking through a series of villages. While this is true of the charming neighborhoods like Montmartre, it also applies to the shabbier working-class neighborhoods.

A few days ago, I witnessed my first act of violence in Paris.

We'd been reading about the increasing instances of "senseless" urban and suburban violence in class, so the topic was already on my mind. It was, however, something that I thought of in a purely academic light. Sure, I always joked with my friends about getting mugged or dying in a ditch somewhere, especially during the times when we'd walk through an especially unsavory part of town, but I never really took it seriously. Because to be honest, Paris is a pretty safe city. Many people have it a lot worse elsewhere.

But seeing a girl get beat up by a gang of other girls while you are stuck, helpless, on the other side of the Metro tracks changes your perspective quite a bit.

My faith in humanity remains intact, however, as there were people on the other side who could and did immediately come to the girl's help. People do give a shit.

I was never overly naive about the realities of the world (or even of Paris). I also am fairly certain that I would be an unlikely target for any gangs. Thus, I am relatively safe. Regardless, it is always a bit saddening and disconcerting when you realize how much clearer the rose-colored glasses have become.

Girl-on-the-Metro, wherever and whoever you are, I hope that you got home okay and that you are safe.

quel est ce mystère // what is this mystery

I was feeling super-depressed when Thanksgiving rolled around. This was unexpected, seeing as I wasn't really into it while in the States. In addition, I'd thought that since the French didn't celebrate it, it'd be better since there would be no reminders.

Instead, I got out of class at 7:30 p.m. on Thursday night, feeling utterly bereft and maudlin.

This malaise, however, might have been due to the fact that M. had been whining about it too. And since misery loves company...

I'm not blaming anyone. Really.

In any case, we decided that a Thanksgiving dinner was, in fact, absolutely necessary. And that goddammit, the boys were going to have to dress up. (The girls, too. But girls don't need convincing.) And so we did.

We all showed up at M.'s place in Boulogne after having spent a fortune on American food ingredients. Despite the fact that pretty much everyone was milling around in the kitchen, each needing to use the oven and stove more than the last, we got dinner on the table in about four hours. Very impressive, if I do say so myself.

Our menu:

• butternut squash soup (I winged it again this year, adjusting things to my taste with much better results)
• smoked salmon & tomatoes quiche with confiture d'oignons
• garlic mashed potatoes
• green beans with lemon butter & garlic (I guess I was determined that we had some sort of vegetable on the table, even if it was slathered in butter...)
  
• roasted chicken (try finding a full turkey in France on a student budget...)
• pumpkin pie with whipped cream
• apple pie with vanilla ice cream
• M.'s whoopie pies from who-knows-when

and



I forgot my camera, so these pictures actually belong to M. from Princeton. I shamelessly purloined them from facebook.

There was, of course, red wine, white wine, and cider to round things out. Not bad for some poor college students three guys and two girls, huh?

plus légère que l'air // lighter than air

Seeing as it's getting to be exam time for everyone and their mother (except, of course, me), I thought I'd provide you with a little insight to my academic process. Thus, I present you with:

How to Not Fail French University: A Plan

1. For the two classes that I have at la fac, it is necessary to milk my "Je suis une Américaine stupide" status for all that it's worth. In theory, this will get the professors to take pity on me and give me a decent grade. The majority of French kids don't get 15 out of 20, so I don't really understand how my university thinks that making a 15/20 an A constitutes as a proper scale.*
2. For my French class, suck up to Madame K. and do extra exercises to make up for my disastrous attempts at la grammaire française and the fact that I have never seen half of this grammar before.**
3. Give up my France & Europe class as a lost cause and rely on my Cultures, Institutions, & Mentalités Politiques grades to cancel it out. This might actually be possible thanks to Monsieur R.'s generosity. As for Madame G., I have no hope of her ever getting over her narrowminded viewpoint that understanding the big ideas are not as good as regurgitating shit verbatim.

*Writing my papers might also be a good idea.
**By sucking up, I really mean, "Maybe talk in class once in a while."

There is much less required work involved in the French university system. At the same time, it is just as hard, if not harder (and not just due to the whole language barrier). It's incredibly different from the expectations that we have as American students. For example, French kids aren't expected to create a thesis in their papers and defend it--they're actually not supposed to. More often than not, they end their papers having talked about three different possibilities, without knowing what the "right" answer is.

What I mean to say is that I still have no significant free time. Just lots of dead periods. And I've been incredibly bad about filling up said dead periods with French instead of English.

Basically, I'm just a failure. At French, I mean. Sob.

qu'on oublie pas // that one doesn't forget

In the past couple of weeks, I have learned the following:

• Paris is expensive, but London is even more so (I still love it anyway)
• Frenchmen have pissing contests by trying to one-up one another regarding the number of bedrooms that they have at their family chateau. Case in point: my host dad vs. his brother-in-law
• I am a tease (?)
• the French don't do Thanksgiving. In fact, your American-based university program will make sure that you have classes until 7:30 p.m. the day of
• the French suck at bowling. I mean, they really suck.
• I've developed this rather (un)fortunate addiction to mango sorbets and coffee ice-cream that actually tastes like coffee
• somewhat related to the point above, I eat like shit here because I don't drink nearly enough water
• French dolls are anatomically correct. My 3-year-old charge has a baby boy doll complete with all the relevant plumbing
• French kids have no prolem pooping and peeing in front of each other. This might explain why grown-up Frenchmen have no problem whipping out their willies in broad daylight to pee onto incoming traffic

The point is that all these random bits of knowledge, unsavory or no, would not be possible if I were not studying in Paris. This post is a day late (my bad.), but I am quite thankful for this rather eye-opening experience.

I am thankful for you, too. But you already knew that.

fais-moi revivre encore // make me alive again

Last Thursday, I had the (mis)fortune of:

• having to hand in a 10-page explication du texte on the Great Depression (in French!)
• taking a 2.5 hour midterm (passer un partiel, as they say) where I wrote a plan de dissertation on the powers of le Président de la République and a commentaire on the discourse of Robert Badinter
• knowing that I had an impending examen on the following Monday morning

Obviously, I needed a break before tackling said examen on the illustrious Charles de Gaulle and the not-as-well-known Georges Pompidou. Logically, the best course of action was to pick up and go to London for the weekend.

En fait, I'd bought my tickets on Tuesday night--two full days before the paper and the exam. In light of this disclosure, I admit that the trip was obviously not as spontaneous as I'd led you to believe. My apologies.

Anyhow, D. and I left Paris on Friday morning, departing from the Eurolines station in Bagnolet. We spent the bus ride--which lasted more hours than I care to count--sleeping, talking (in English!), and complaining by turn. A favorite subject of ours was the ridiculous process of going through customs. In all seriousness, it was like a video game: you stopped every couple of meters, drove around in circles, navigated various obstacles, performed like a monkey in heels...

We got through customs only to end up in a claustrophobe's nightmare: the ferry.

Our huge bus was boxed in by this...contraption.

All I can say is that I'm really glad I'm not claustrophobic. But seriously? D. & I were so happy to be going to London that we didn't much care.

One of our first views of London after a couple of hours on the highway.

We arrived at Victoria Coach Station around 6:15, only to be given the herculean task of somehow making it to our hostel. The process happened much like this:

1. Getting from Victoria to King's Cross via the London Underground: simple enough, albeit expensive at 4£ per single trip ticket
   
2. Getting from King's Cross to our hostel, located on King's Cross Road: more complicated than it should have been

You see...I was exhausted remiss in my duties and did not do as much research as I should have. All I had was the address. Fortunately, we ran into a very nice man who took us to the hostel and gave us some very good advice. Apparently, the road we were heading down (after making a wrong turn. Of course) led to a more unsavory part of London. Not where "two nice American girls" would like to go. Whoops. Thank you, Mr. Nice Englishman!

Public Service Announcement: Don't head down Gray's Inn Road after getting out from King's Cross. Apparently at night it fills up with a multitude of unsavory characters.

But I digress. D. & I stayed at Clink, a hostel housed in what used to be a courthouse. They kept a lot of the old structure and it looked very cool. IN general, it was nice, clean, and safe. The only bad things were the bathrooms, in which you left dirtier than you came, but I guess you can't have everything.

We made friends with some sweet Australian girls and some crazy Italian girls. I meant to go dancing with them both nights that we were there, but alas, my exhaustion (from work, traveling, and playing tourist) got the better of me on both nights. I guess I am just not a crazy party animal.

Clink's internet room was actually the old court room.

On Saturday, we did...well...everything.

We dropped by Buckingham Palace to see the Changing of the Guard.

Men in uniform always equates to an increase in my libido. But this is my future husband. Just saying.


I can't believe that they do this everyday. Or every other day.

It was an interesting ceremony, even if it got monotonous after a while. My favorite parts were a) when they had someone systematically check the little guard houses and b) the shuffling required during various parts of the whole act.

This is my other future husband. D. and I got him to smile, haha. Victory!

We then had lunch at an Italian restaurant in the Covent Gardens. This was after we walked through the artisanal crafts market, of course. An Italian man made me (and D.) a heart-shaped pizza. I'd marry him if he wasn't so old.

D. & I then met up with an old friend (one that I hadn't seen in 7 years). We were supposed to go on a walking tour, but the tour never showed up. T., kind soul that she was, played tour guide for us instead.

She took us to see Big Ben...

...and Westminster Abbey.

After taking a little break, we headed off to see the Tower of London.

Creepy? More like awesome!

And what trip would be complete without the Tower Bridge?

Sorry. This was the best one I had without my face in it.

And then, even though it was raining, we headed off to Saint Paul's Cathedral.

Pretty!


We also caught a glimpse of the Globe.

My flats were utterly destroyed by the rain, so D. & T. teamed up and convinced me to buy 3-inch-heeled boots. This involved some hardcore bargaining--I convinced a hapless young man to give me a 5£ discount. Win?

The next day, D. & I found time to hit up Platform 9 & 3/4 before leaving. I'm not too big of a Harry Potter fan, but it was fun.

"My trolley won't move!"

On the way back, D. & I couldn't stop talking about how much fun we'd had and how we didn't want to go back to Paris. In particular, we were immensely charmed by the advertisements and signage that we encountered in London:

I think that one of the best things about London was how friendly people are. Everyone smiles and makes small talk and is so helpful. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed all of this, living in Paris with the über-reserved French. But it was just so nice to interact with people and to not feel like they were looking down on me. (Seriously, my biggest sense of accomplishment in Paris comes on the days when some French(wo)man judges me to look safe, knowledgeable, and French enough to ask me for directions...) I think that this was a big reason why I didn't want to leave.

Anyway, that's neither here nor there. Just know that London was awesome. As always, pictures with my face in them are on facebook.

mourir loin de moi // to die far from me

Sometimes I get stuck in this mindset that because they are both "Western" developed countries, the United States and France are pretty much the same, escept that France just has more dog poop and cheese. Fortunately, something usually comes along before I get too comfortable and gives me a good whack on the head. Sometimes, France and the United States couldn't be more fundamentally different.

Last Thursday, it was a simple comment about how criminal justice lawyers are on the bottom of the totem pole as far as prestige and pay goes (more on this later) that gave me a sharp reminder of how different the French are.

We were sitting in my Cultures, Institutions, & Mentalités Politiques class. Contrary to popular opinion, I am capable of paying attention in a 2.5 hour lecture. We were discussing the evolution of the French judicial system. After the French Revolution, the much-maligned system where judges could be bought and nobles had separate rules was changed into an institution guided by the principles of égalité, gratuité, and centralisation. The French then had a system where judges were elected and where there was presumably less corruption. A big difference, however, if I understood correctly, is that French judges do not interpret the law in the manner that American judges do. This was revolutionary: a system where people were treated the same and money (or lack thereof) did not dictate the severity of your punishment.

As infamous as it is, the guillotine was also revolutionary because for the first time, those condemned to death was also executed the same way: quickly and elegantly. Before, nobles had the right to take poison or something quick and dignified. Poorer folks were not as lucky.

All this eventually led to talk about the death penalty. France abolished it in 1981, the last--along with Ireland--of the European Union countries to do so (although back then, it was the CEE and not the EU). During his exposé, R. put up a map showing how the world is divided roughly in half regarding the allowance of the death penalty.

Of course, this led to a talk about the state of the death penalty in the U.S. Monsieur R., poor Frenchman that he was, had a bit of a hard time wrapping his head around the Americans' decentralized way of going about it. He just didn't quite understand why we left the decision to the states. Actually, I'm pretty sure he didn't quite understand why individual states had so much power in general. I admit, though, that after someone brought up the fact that death by firing squad was still legal in Utah (I think it was Utah?), I didn't quite get it either.

The notion that we tried the recently-executed Washington D.C. sniper in Virginia (where the death penalty is legal) instead of D.C. or Maryland was also completely astounding to Monsieur R. Not because of the deliberate decision to do so, but because he couldn't believe that there was no national law governing this.

On a lighter note, back to the deal with lawyers. France is not a good place to make money if you want to be a lawyer. As stated before, the French just don't give a damn about criminal justice lawyers (so different from the U.S.!) The profession as a whole, actually, is just not that prestigious. Monsieur R. explained that magistrats were actually better received than lawyers. Something about them being closer to the law and therefore closer to reason. Since I'm not French, his reasoning went a bit over my head.

Just interesting food for thought.

je pouvais faire pire // i could have done worse

Three posts in two days? Don't get used to it!

For those of you who have not been kept up to date on my (mis)adventures with my language exchange partner...

T. & THE CREEPER

A Play in Five Acts

CAST OF CHARACTERS

T., our clueless hero

M1, friend from Princeton

M2, friend from my university

J., friend from Amherst

Creeper, language exchange partner

ACT I: EARLY WARNINGS

T: Hey guys! I'm off to meet with my language exchange partner!

M1: The one we met in Normandy?

M2: The older guy who's not even a student? T., don't go. It's sketchy. I'm pretty sure that he wants more from you than just a language exchange.

M1: Aww...he was nice! You're too suspicious!

T: And besides, why do you need to assume that any friendly Frenchman is sketchy?

M2: Because American girls have a reputation of being easy.

J: How old is this guy?

T: If he wants an easy girl, he picked the wrong one! And probably late twenties, early thirties?

J: He wants in your pants.

T&M1: Guys...really?

M2: Yeah. I'm telling you this as a guy. Guys are constantly thinking of this.

ACT II: THE FIRST MEETING

CREEPER walks up to meet T. It is raining, and CREEPER'S hair is slicked back in a slightly greasy looking manner. In addition, CREEPER has grown a pedophile mustache and beard since T. last saw him.

CREEPER: (doing the French kissing thing) T! How nice to see you! Did you have a good weekend with your parents? Take a lot of pictures?

T: Yeah. How are you? (T. is slightly weirded out by the bisous, but chalks it up to the fact that a. she's a prude at heart when faced with strange men, and b. Frenchmen do this all the time)

CREEPER: Fine, fine! Let's sit down at this café here and have a drink. You like fruit juice?

They end up at Paradis des Fruits. T. finds out that CREEPER does not drink or smoke, a first (and a rarity) amongst Frenchmen. To her, he seems nice enough, and she begins to relax...

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah...I used to date this one Japanese girl that took pictures all the time.

T: ...oh, really? Hahahahha.

CREEPER: So you are full Vietnamese? Completely Asian?

T: Yes, although a lot of people think that I am wasian.

CREEPER: Yes...your eyes look different, like you could be Eurasian. How old are you, anyway?

T: Twenty.

CREEPER: Really? I could've sworn you were at least twenty-two. Maybe twenty-three.

T: Yeah, people think I'm older. How old are you?

CREEPER: (smiles creepily) How old do you think I am?

T: ...I don't know.

CREEPER: Thirty-one.

There is an awkward silence.

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...my Chinese girlfriend...blah blah blah blah blah.

T: (to herself, after the third reference to ex-girlfriends who were Asian) Fuck! Guy has an Asian fetish! (to CREEPER) ...I'm sorry, what was that?

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah...Why do you study politics? Me, I came to my job rather by accident blah blah blah blah...

(At this point, the waitress comes by. It has gotten dark outside and the café has dimmed its lights. She proffers a single lighted candle, to be placed in the middle of the table.)

CREEPER: So, T...do you have a white boyfriend or a Vietnamese one?

T: ...what?! ...none at the moment...why? (It occurs to T. that perhaps she should've said, "He's actually big and black.")

CREEPER: I just wanted to know. Some families have a problem with dating outside your race. I had a Chinese coworker once--her family took a very long time to accept her Indian boyfriend.

T: ...right. Well, my parents don't have a say who I date.

The meeting continues. Near the end, CREEPER makes a comment about how the French joke about sex much more easily than do Americans. T. responds, saying that she jokes about sex all the time...with her friends. CREEPER says that in France, you can even joke with strangers. Eventually, after resisting the urge to check her watch for the umpteenth time, T. leaves. The meeting ends with, of course, un bisous.

ACT III: MIDWEEK

T. is in the middle of a crowded supermarket, recounting her horribly awkward experience to her friends, when her phone rings.

M2: I told you that he wanted in your pants.

T: Possibly. But he could just be really friendly! Hang on....(taking out her phone) hello? Oh hi!

CREEPER (voice from backstage): Hello! I just wanted to call and try to set up a time to meet tonight?

T: What? Can you say that again?

CREEPER: It's me...you don't remember me? (creepy chuckling)

T: (under her breath) Jesus fucking Christ... (out loud) Of course! I just can't hear you. What are you saying?

CREEPER: I want to set up a meeting time for tonight!

T: I'm not actually free tonight...or the entire week. Only during Sunday? Can you send me an email?

CREEPER: Of course!

ACT IV: THE SECOND MEETING

They meet and font la bise.

CREEPER: If you like coffee, maybe next time I will take you to my office and make you coffee there? It will be cheaper.

T: Uh...no thanks! I like cafés just fine!

The conversation progresses much as before. T. is unable to concentrate on French, so most of the exchange takes place in English and badly broken French. T. claims tiredness.

T: I actually wanted to talk to you. You see, I signed up for this during the beginning of the year, when I didn't have many activities. Now as you can see, I am not free during the week, and only a few times during the weekend since I'll be traveling so much. I'm just not going to be able to meet you for the requisite amount of two times or three times a week. Maybe it will be better for you to find a new partner?

CREEPER: ...I understand. I like you, but it will be better for me to find someone who I can meet with more often. (jokingly) I'm sad that you don't like me enough to stay!

T: ahahahaha. Mkayyythanksbye!

ACT V: REACTIONS

T: So I got myself out of that situation.

M2: Good girl. But I told you he was creepy.

T: ...

So I guess my life wouldn't make for a very good play.

comme ceux d'avant // like those before

Now that the Great Bitch Fest of 2009 is over, I'd like to bring something more...savory (in the food/taste sense of the word) to your attention:

French cuisine is generally known as one of the best in the world. But what about the times when les français get a craving for junk food? Something more trashy? Something not quite so refined?

They go to the store and buy steak-flavored potato chips, of course!

This is not my picture. I ate my bag and guiltily threw away the remnants at the Metro before I remembered that I wanted a picture.

I can attest that the steak-flavored potato chips do, in fact, taste like meat. And like steak. The roast-chicken potato chips are almost as good (albeit a bit blander, in my opinion). And I'm pretty sure that the chorizo potato chips tasted like the Spanish sausage that they were inspired by.

A tiny part of me is ashamed that I bothered to try this, but only a tiny part. (On a side note, this is why it's so nice to hang out with boys: you only feel guilty for buying shit like this for a brief moment.)

Before you lose all respect for me and my taste buds: note that while I liked this, it did not merit both a "food" and a "sex" tag. :P