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

de ces soirs de lumières // of these lit-up nights

The above image, my friends, is what I would term a "foodgasm." Sure, it doesn't look like much. Actually, to be honest, it might even look...unsavory. I mean, a sort-of shapeless blob of a pastry? I know what you think it looks like. Let's not go there.

But no.

It is so much more.

This is an éclair café that I bought at my local bakery. I am not quite sure why it is an éclair café and not an éclair au café, but grammatical questions are of no import here. The important thing is that you spend a couple of seconds looking at this...and then you start envying me enviously for the rest of your envy-filled life.

Just kidding. I don't know what it was about this eclair that made me like it so much. Maybe it is because I am a sucker for all things coffee-flavored. Maybe it is because I am so happy to discover that French pastries, while often rich, are nowhere near as sickeningly sweet as the majority of American pastries. Upon eating this eclair, I first encountered a subtle hint of coffee. A bit skeptical at the beginning, I became more and more impressed as I chewed and the flavors started to merge into the perfect balance of coffee, sweetness, and richness.

Why oh why are French desserts so much better across the board? The other day, I found myself at a KFC. Yes, KFC. My friends and I were simply looking for a place to work, and KFC had wi-fi, unlike the café that we had originally settled on. Of course, you can't just sit down without ordering something. So I...went for the tiramisu. Of course. It set me back only 1,90 Euro. And that tiramisu, which I found at a KFC, was better than the majority of those that I've tried in the States.

This, dear friends, is why I can't bring myself to bake while in Paris, no matter how dearly I miss it. I am simply not brave enough to confront my inferiority.


...But let us turn our attention to something other than my inferiority food.

This picture was taken from my window, and is representative of one of the things that I love about Paris. Lest you call me a stalker, I will endeavor to explain myself:

I was minding my own business, en faisant les devoirs, je pense, when I suddenly heard music drifting through the house. My host family was (and is still) away on vacation, so it could not have been them turning on the CD player or something. And I...I was too rational to believe in ghosts, so that was out of the question.

...it took me a while to realize that it came from outside. I never said that I was smart, okay?!

For some reason, several gentlemen had randomly decided to pull out their instruments and play music on our street. They were situated all over the place; there was a man standing across the street from the one that you see in the picture, as well as two others stationed in different places. It was like...an impromptu marching band. They were playing an old love song to which I know the tune but not the title. When I asked my host-sister later that night, she could not recall the title either, but thought that it was possibly Russian.

One day I will hum you that song, and perhaps you will know. Or maybe not. I'm amused that I recognize all these French (and apparently Russian) songs, but cannot do the same with American music.

I like that there are impromptu concerts in the middle of the streets in Paris.


For those who are interested, I am still going through orientation. Orientation currently consists of two classes: French and méthodologie. In French, we haven't been doing much but for some grammar review and random discussions about cultural differences. In méthodologie, we are (re)learning the structure of the French dissertation. One of my teachers looks like a younger version of Alan Rickman.

Classes at Paris I start in early October. I am in the process of choosing my classes for that. We will see.

même au creux de tes bras // even in the shelter of your arms

Forty-seven days until I leave for France. This seems so far away, especially with my friends’ much-more-imminent departure dates looming in my mind. Seven days. Seven days. Fifteen days. What is forty-nine compared to that?

The title of my blog—je n’veux plus attendre—means “I no longer want to wait.” I can’t wait for France and all the new experiences it will bring. At the same time, though, I can’t help but notice how frantic I am now to make good memories here in preparation for France. With the knowledge that I won’t be able to see my friends at all, I am doing silly things like taking impromptu trips to a city five states away. I go out much more than I ever did in summers past.

This frenetic energy is visible in smaller ways as well. Due to the fact that I won’t be able to bake properly while I’m in France, I’ve been on a baking frenzy. Of course, my life is made more difficult by the fact that my entire family seems to be on some sort of diet. How do I compensate? I bake cookies and hard-to-spoil stuff, and then I pack it and ship it all off to different parts of the country. But I digress.

A week until I go and suck up to strangers and pay the French Embassy an exorbitant amount of money for my visa. I’m not sure that I even have all the stuff that I need to get it yet. Oops. But as I always say, desperation is the best motivation when it comes to procrastination!

The motto above probably doesn't apply to language, though. I've been trying to practice my French, but I feel as though I am going to arrive in Paris and forget how to say my own name. J'ai peur. I also have this nasty feeling that the sophisticated Parisians are not too moved by desperation. Guess I need to practice my walking-with-a-purpose walk so as to...not impress, exactly, but to not unimpress les Français.

My host family is leaving for vacation the week after I get there, about when my orientation starts. Good timing on their part, I guess. Madame was super nice when she told me about this, only to inform me that she had taken steps to ensure that I'd be taken care of. While she's gone, I will be pampered by a friend of hers who has apparently hosted students from my college before. I guess I also get the apartment to myself then. Wine and cheese extravaganza at my place, anyone?

Haha, just kidding. What I really meant is that the week that she's gone, I'll be having wild sex in every room of the apartment.

Just kidding about that too. Watching Taken and Human Trafficking has forever disenchanted me from the notion of taking cute foreign boys home.

...I guess it's pretty obvious that I'm a boring lame-o.

But I still need to actually make it to Paris. I don’t think I can deal with all the shit that needs to be done before I leave for France. Actually, I can't deal with my life.

I think I'm going to go listen to depressing French songs now.