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.

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

oui je veux tout // yes i want it all

I just had an orgasm in my mouth. Except it was better.

Yes, I know that's what she said, but I'm pretty sure that this metaphorical girl's experience can't have possibly been as good as mine.

In the 4th arrondissement, on L'île Saint-Louis, there is a little store called Berthillon. Berthillon is widely considered to make some of the best--if not the best--ice cream in Paris. Because it's a local establishment and all, you can only find Berthillon ice cream on l'île Saint-Louis. In case you can't make it to the original store, most of the restaurants/bars/cafés on l'île sell Berthillon ice cream; I hear that it's delivered daily.

I took the parents out for ice cream tonight (they are visiting for the week)...actually, I guess that they're the ones who took me out since they paid. In any case, it was amazing. Amazing.

I had the famed caramel au beurre salé ice cream. Something about that salted butter caramel left an explosion of taste in my mouth. It was sweet and buttery and salty and wonderful. I think that it definitely goes on the list of Things That Would Turn T. Into An Easy Woman.

It wasn't all all ponies and unicorns, however. By the time I had finished my ice cream, the sweet aftertaste was a bit cloying and stuck to my throat. Sorry. Didn't mean to take the sexual analogy this far.

Mom wasn't the biggest fan (thought it was too sweet), but she did enjoy the mango sorbet. Likewise, Dad liked the vanilla. They both complimented the coffee ice cream.

It's okay that they didn't like the caramel ice cream though. I guess not everyone is up for having orgasms in their mouth.




...Paris has obviously turned me to the the most depraved of souls. In retrospect, I'm kind of disturbed that I mentioned "orgasm" and "mom and dad" in the same blog post.

l'amour à boire // love for drinking

I love reading David Lebovitz's blog, but there are times when I just hate him. He can afford to eat all kinds of Parisian cuisine. I keep an eye out for the cheapest formules and usually end up going for the 2.50 Euro crêpe au citron-sucre instead. He can buy his produce at the outdoor markets. I look for the cheap stuff at Franprix and Ed.

This is, of course, not at all his fault. He has a job. I am simply a poor college student. But I'd like to think that I do not eat that much more badly than he does--good food can be found at any price, and it's not like he doesn't appreciate the cheap stuff just as much as I do. It's just that sometimes I wish I could drop 30 Euro on a meal somewhere.

But then again, there are those days when I don't give a damn about the "better," more expensive food. Because, goddammit, I have a loaf of bread that has probably been infused with crack from l'Atelier des Pains, and I have a good selection of cheese. And I have butter and sugar.

And so there's really no need to hate anyone. No need to feel sorry for yourself. Because something as simple as that can still result in one of the best dinners that you can get in Paris.

Highly addictive demi-baguette with tomme, some kind of bleu, and some other unspecified cheese.

I feel like my love affair with bread and cheese is going to be a lifelong one that will undoubtedly interfere with my other relationships.

ma gorge est sèche // my mouth is dry

Did you know that after a long period of searching, I have finally found my sugar daddy?

I mean it!

...you want proof?

Never let it be said that the French do not have a sense of humor. That said, though, this brand has supposedly been around for 25 years, so maybe the French version of sugar daddy came first?

Apologies re: the lighting. It was dark outside, and there was no natural light.

I figure it's been a while since I've posted about food, and if you know anything about me, you'll realize that it comes close to sacrilege. Ergo (there's that word again!), I will have to rectify the situation.

Last Friday, M. from Princeton, M. from my university, J. from Amherst, and I got together at my place for a potluck dinner. We all enjoyed it so much that we've decided that we're going to do this every week from now now. It was held at my place this because ma famille d'accueil was in Berlin for the weekend. They're still not back as of today, though, so I'm not sure how long they'll be gone. I hope they come back soon. I don't know how the heating system works chez moi and it's cold.

But I digress.

The meal was really a mélange of cultures. J., who was tasked with making the main dish this time, made a Nigerian chicken stew. For the record, his family does not come from Nigeria, but again, I digress. I made Vietnamese summer rolls (they are called roulettes de printemps here, though--"spring rolls"). M. from Princeton brought a salad with nuts and oranges in addition to a baguette and Jewish challah bread. And finally, M. from my university made an apple crumble and served it with caramel ice cream.

I wish that I had a good picture to show you, but unfortunately, the wine and vodka were flowing freely and I forgot to take pictures. This is a picture of some of the food:

Pictured: Nigerian stew, spring rolls, bread, J.'s plate.
Not pictured: salad, apple crumble, ice cream, wine, vodka, orange juice, people having fun

In retrospect, the whole affair seemed to me a perfect balance between classy dinner and crazy college party. It was probably one of the best nights that I've had in Paris.

Preparation for the dinner started as soon as I finished babysitting. From the 19th arrondissement, I took the Metro over to France's Chinatown. There, I dropped by the huge-supermarket-that-has-relatively-cheap-produce-and-shit-solely-because-it's-Asian, Tang Frères. I picked up some lettuce, Thai basil, mint, bean sprouts, shrimp, and some pork belly.

Fun fact: when you do not know how to say pork belly in French, revert to Vietnamese. Only after I had told the butcher that I wanted some thit ba roi (no accents because I can't figure out how to do them for Vietnamese), and only after he'd given some to me, did I notice the sign saying "poitrine." But it's good to know that I can make myself understood, no matter how many languages I have to use.

It took about 45 minutes to get back to my apartment from the 13th, and by then, it was almost five. And so I did what I do best: I multitasked. A pot filled with boiling water went on the stove to cook the vermicelli. In the meantime, I cleaned and prepared the herbs and lettuce and set the shrimp in a bowl of water to defrost. The vermicelli cooked quickly, and after it was finished, I dealt with the pork and the shrimp. After all that, it was only a matter of rolling the rolls (hahaha).

I got everything done by 21h (that's 7 p.m. in American). M. from my university came just as I finished cleaning up. I left the kitchen to him so that he could make his apple crumble as I went downstairs to open the door for M. from Princeton. As we were waiting around, wondering where J. was, we get a call saying, "Can one of you buy me some chicken? I'll pay you back as soon as I get there."

I guess it's a good thing that I was planning to head out to buy the wine anyway.

Off to Franprix I went. There's something to be said about having a supermarket right next door. There, one of the cashiers hit on me, mainly because:

1. I am Asian.
   
2. I was clearly not French. Note to self: remember next time that it's une bouteille of vodka and not un bouteille. Apparently people who speak French with a little accent are exotic and desirable. Hahahahahaha.
   
3. I was buying alcohol. Not just wine. But vodka. And orange juice. Sketch!

Anyway, I get back, to find out that J. has gotten himself lost. He's at a metro station that is close by, but not one of the two I had indicated when I sent out the directions. So off I go to get him.

Let me just state for the record that I love J. He's so...crazy. And exuberant. As in: totally American and not French. He shouted my name when he saw me, and totally attempted to do the suave French bisous thing. Except it ended up being a half-American-hug-half-French-greeting. And the first words out of his mouth (after I'd asked him why the hell he ended up at Villiers instead of going directly to Rome or Europe like I'd told him to): "I went to Villiers because I was smoking hash with this guy."

Hahahahaha, made no sense whatsoever. I got the story later on, though, so it was all good.

The dinner went swimmingly, although we all ended up with a lot of extra food. Even though I was horribly sick and couldn't really taste anything, I fell in love with this one cheese that M. from Princeton brought. She said it was called tomie? I think? I need more.

The three of us ended up staying up and talking until around 4 a.m. We played 10 fingers and taught J. to play hearts. We all talked really openly and I felt really comfortable with all of them and I'm glad that I have had the opportunity for that here in Paris. Subjects included: sex, education, France, why boys masturbate more than girls do, pornography, etc. I love having guy friends, hahahaha.

J. & M. from my university think that I and M. from Princeton are vixens waiting to be released (well...mostly J.). Which means that he spent the entire night trying to spike M. from Princeton's drink with more vodka. (I was off the hook because a. I was sick, and b. I didn't need vodka to talk outrageously.)

Then we all found a place to sleep. And I did so, content with this patchwork family of sorts that I'd found for myself in Paris.

Upcoming: more food, or why I don't feel guilty not cooking; my trip to Normandy/Mont St-Michel; and why I am only staying for the semester in Paris instead of the year.

dix ans plus tard // ten years later

I know that I have been neglecting this blog a little bit as of late, but I have been sick and busy...and sick...and busy. Please expect a deluge of posts to come (and check to see the ones that have been posted!)--I am probably typing up even more entries as you are reading this one.

There are few things that are more simple and more perfect that a Parisian bread and cheese picnic. I don't know why, but I am pretty sure that it is one of those unbreakable laws of the universe.

Anyhow, one Friday night, a week or two ago, a group of friends and I decided that it would be a good idea to buy a bunch of cheese and have a picnic by the Seine (it was. A good idea, I mean). After some mishaps--who knew that bakeries are everywhere in Paris only when you aren't looking for them?--we were well on our way.

This is a photo of me smelling bread. I got teased for it all night...because I couldn't stop smelling it. But bread--good bread--is pretty much my version of crack. And I'm sure that there must be worse things to be teased about...

We had nine (9! NEUF. NUEVE.) different types of cheeses, along with some ham, pâté, and Smirnoff ice (nobody felt like wine). I can't remember what all of the cheeses were, but here is what I can dredge up:

• Brie
• Camembert
• Cantal
• Brin (??)
• Gorgonzola
• a type of blue cheese
• La Vache Qui Rit
• some sort of dessert cheese

Opinions on the various cheeses ranged from "Hey! This is awesome!" (M. finished an entire round of camembert by himself...) to "Ugh. This tastes like piss!" (No one liked the gorgonzola) Such is the power of cheese, I guess.

This is a picture of the carnage after we were done. There was still quite a lot of cheese remaining. To the left is C.'s bottle of beer.

Afterward, we all hopped on the Metro and went off in search of ice cream. Even though it was cold. Long story short, we found it, ate a lot, and all went home with a food baby.

When I leave Paris, it won't be the museums or galleries or theaters that I will miss most. It will be nights like this.

sans savoir où ça le mène // without knowing where it leads

I find it soothing and immensely helpful to write out all my blog entries and/or essays before I type them up. Maybe it's just me, but I think the entries end up flowing better. Words come more easily to me this way, and I like being able to revise as I am typing things up.

...but I digress.

Two days ago (as in samedi, 26.09.09), I went to Versailles. It was truly the home of the Sun King...and I was clearly in the wrong about the National Assembly being too opulent. You do not know opulent until you've been to Versailles.

I took the train to Versailles on a crisp, sunny morning. My Carte Imagine R had arrived the day before, so I was in an extremely good mood despite having had to get up early. (My Asian brain releases endorphins like no other every time I manage to avoid paying for something, you see, and thus the fact that I no longer had to pay an arm and a leg for transportation effectively put me on Cloud Nine.) Upon arrival, my life was made even better as we found out that the people who had set the whole thing up for us had made reservations for us as a group. This meant that we got to skip the long line that stretched all the way to Denmark and go directly into the chateau. And thus, I began my tour of Le Roi Soleil's domain.

I was told that there is always some part of Versailles that is under construction. In addition, the wings of the chateau are not accessible to the public as that is where Le Sénat and l'Assemblée Nationale convene whenver they deign it necessary to talk to each other. But the rest of the property was pretty much up for grabs.

We started with a tour of the chateau itself.

At first, I was staring wide-eyed at everything I saw and snapping pictures feverishly. After all, it was Versailles.

This is my knight in shining armor.

Don't worry, R.B. I will never again make the mistake of saying, "some random ceiling" in your presence. Thus, this is a very impressive ceiling done by a very-impressive-and-probably-famous artist.


The famous Hall of Glass.


People were really agog over the bed of Louis XIV. My audioguide described the various entrances to his bedroom; apparently there was a small one reserved solely for courtesans.


Where do you think they got the idea to turn Han Solo into metal in Star Wars?


Trompe-l'oeil: "to fool the eye." This is a painting, not a carving.


The mirrors were kind of dirty.

After a while, though, the rooms all started to look the same to me: each and every one of them lavishly decorated, elegant, and maybe a bit over the top. Maybe I just prefer the simpler things in life?

Anyway, I stopped taking pictures until we got outside. The gardens and landscaping at Versailles were by far my favorite part of it.

One of the many "bodies of water" at Versailles. This picture was taken on the steps of the chateau.


This guy didn't know how to row. He's about to maroon himself and his girlfriend.


This is another body of water. I was just taking a picture of the landscape, but this random old woman walked in and turned around at the last moment, so this is a good touristy picture of her.


...I want to get married at Versailles...


Pretty flowers from one of the gardens.


Marie Antoinette had a little hamlet built for herself so that she could come here and pretend to be a peasant/shepherdess every time she got tired of court intrigue.

By the time we got to the hamlet, my friends and I had long been separated from the main group (we'd taken a wrong turn somewhere? Or maybe we took too long for lunch...) After a bit more sightseeing, we decided to hightail it back to the city. Back in Paris, we went to a crêperie in Montparnasse for dinner.

Après avoir dîné, because I was obviously filled with limitless energy, M. & I met up with some friends for a night out on the town. We managed to catch Happy Hour this time, so I didn't have to sell my body to afford a drink. The waiter at the bar/café/restaurant that we were at was very cute and illegally surreptitiously gave us a copy of their menu as we left. I'd like to think that it was because he noticed how much we enjoyed it, but it was probably due to the fact that K. & I were inundating him with questions about whether or not there was a paper copy/a version of it online somewhere.

Why such a big deal for a menu?

Because everyone loves franglais, of course! Also, it was nice to know that while we were incompetent in French, the French were also not as good en anglais.

In this picture, note the "salad of goat (tackle in sheet of brick)" and the "white cake in the coke, the coulis of red fruit."


In this one, note the "crunch lady" and the "tartar of Salmon has the dill."

This is how I spend most of my weekends in Paris: mostly being classy with a little bit of fun thrown in. Other times I am a homebody and don't do anything interesting.

As always, there are more pictures, including those where you can see my face clearly, on facebook.

une goutte dans la mer // a drop in the ocean

In one of my initial posts, I joked around about needing to find myself a sugar daddy. Maybe I shouldn't be joking anymore and actually go and get myself one?

I kid, I kid.

A couple of weeks ago I attended the first course of a set of cooking lessons. We made a dinner of fresh fish from Normandy, ginger-garlic rice, stir-fried zucchini (or was it cucumber?), and oeufs à la neige for dessert. There was also, of course, the requisite wine and cheese and bread.

I didn't really learn too much new stuff, but since we started out simple, it's not a bad thing. I'd never made oeufs à la neige before, but I'd had experience with meringues and custards with all my baking escapades. The combination of fish and rice was absolutely succulent, and as an added bonus, reminded me a little bit of home while managing to be inherently French (I think it was due to the presence of my-weight-in-butter in the sauce).

Oeufs à la neige, translated literally as "snowy eggs" but probably better known as "floating islands" or "floating meringues," is a dessert in which you have pieces of meringue (poached with milk) floating in a sea of rich vanilla custard. It is then topped with caramel.

The lighting provided a wonderful atmosphere for dinner, but as for taking pictures? Not so much.

But as good as the food was, the reason for which I brought up cooking lessons immediately after I mentioned my need for a sugar daddy is thus: Mme B. has a very, very cool apartment and access to baking supplies that I can't imagine in my wildest dreams.

How cool?

Well, to start with, she lives on the top floor of a very snazzy building with two layers of code access protection and its own concierge. Upon arrival, Mme B. pointed to some chick schmoozing with the concierge, noting that she was "a former Bond girl." Yes, James Bond. She lives in a building with a former Bond girl. How cool is that? (Well, apparently not so cool, because according to Mme B., the Bond girl is a little folle.)

But that is not what I am jealous of.

Mme B.'s top floor apartment has two walls which are mostly made of glass and are effectively just two huge windows leading out to two huge balconies. On one side, you have a view of the entirety of the famous Jardin du Luxembourg. It's like a perfectly manicured forest, spreading out almost as far as the eye can see. On the other side, you have a view of the rest of Paris. Sitting at her dinner table, I was treated to a flawless view of the Eiffel Tower...during the light show. And the apartment was huge and well-decorated and everything.

To add, Mme B. has the most beautiful set of scales ever in her kitchen. And she is also the owner of a huge jar of vanilla beans. I've never had a chance to use a vanilla bean in my life. FYI: I don't know how much vanilla beans go for in France, but in the US, their cost ranges anywhere from $5-$8...each. Mme B doesn't bother with vanilla extract.

I'd have pictures, but like I said, the lighting wasn't so cool.

Family, I love you. But I am going to get myself adopted or find myself a sugar daddy or something so that I can live a life like this too. I don't want to come back. I want to stay here and play with vanilla beans while sipping wine and watching the Eiffel Tower for the rest of my life.

Kidding again! But the vanilla beans...

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.

te jeter dans mes bras // throw you into my arms

As I am sure you all know, Paris is the City of Lights, of Romance, of Savoir-Faire and Sophistication...yadda yadda yadda.

Despite their classiness (or perhaps because of it), Parisians are also a very practical lot. As all of the finer things in life (such as bread and pastries and fruits) are available within five minutes' walk no matter where you are in Paris, it also stands to reason that nothing would impede a Parisian if and when he or she is feeling a bit amorous:

The above picture was taken at a metro station. To be honest, I don't remember which one it was as these condom dispensers can be found at any station. In addition, they are on prominent display in any pharmacie that you happen to go to.

This brings me to Reason #2 Why-I-Will-Never-Be-Une-Vraie-Parisienne: it actually has nothing to do with condoms, but the French are so much more open about being touchy-feely than I am used to.

Why, yes, I meant what I said. I know that people generally see the French as snobby socialites who wouldn't give you the time of day, much less give you entrance into their private world. This is true, up to a point. The French are much more private than Americans...there is a clear delineation between public and private space. They are more reserved--harder to get to know, but once you have their friendship, it's one that you can count on.

What I mean is that I am having a hard time getting used to the way Parisians greet each other. The American habit of going for the firm handshake has been deeply ingrained in me. Furthermore, growing up in an Asian household meant that public displays of affection just did not happen. Therefore I am totally flustered by the fact that that on fait des bisous to say hello and goodbye. And that fact that everywhere I look, there are couples PDA-ing.

Yes, I make tons of potentially questionable jokes that bring my morals into question. Yes, I am a hugging beast. Yes, I realize that you don't actually kiss the person, just the air. But. I am of the persuasion that your lips should be nowhere near my face (or the rest of my body, as a matter of fact) if I barely know you and don't have at least some bond of affection with you.

And speaking of kissing, I have never seen so much PDA in my life. But it's kind of cute, since the Parisians keep it classy and do romantic things like holding hands and smooching every once in a while. Classy. No need to get a room. It's just weird seeing all this romance in the air.

As always, I will get over myself soon enough. I'll probably even start kissing-as-a-greeting automatically. Apologies in advance to anyone that I may unintentionally molest during my first couple of weeks back in the States.


In other news, I am enjoying the fact that I can cook for myself, even if I do not know where everything is yet and even if I am still a bit uncomfortable about the fact that it is neither my kitchen nor my things. Tonight's dinner (and dinner for the rest of the week, as cooking for one means that you cook in bulk) was relatively simple:

The chicken thighs are from the market down the street, marinated (with a mixture of lemon juice, chopped basil, garlic, vegetable oil, salt and pepper) and pan-"fried." I had some brocolli and celery left over, so I made it into a quick stir-fry with some soy sauce. And then, just because I love them, I cut up a fresh, red tomato.

I know, I know, not very "French." But to be honest, I am getting a bit tired of all the butter and cream and richness, so this was a nice alternative.

de la bouche du metro // from the mouth of the metro

Between today and yesterday, I learned all manner of things:

1. The sex district of which I spoke of is in le 9è arrondissement--only about a ten-minute walk away from my house. This is good to know, I guess, should I ever have a need for taking sketchy pictures ("Mom! Dad! Guess where I am?!") Or should there ever be an affaire between myself and a Frenchman, I will know where to get us sex toys and lacy lingerie. Additionally, I like to culture myself--the erotic museum will surely accomplish that.
2. Frenchmen are incredibly feminine. I really love them only for their accents. There have been two instances so far when I have thought that someone was a woman until he opened his mouth. When I mentioned the lacy lingerie in No. 1, I was not necessarily implying that I would be the one to wear it.
3. Despite their Eurotrashy tendency to wear pants that are tighter than my own, Frenchmen still occupy some sort of pedestal on my head. Being hit on by Frenchmen in the sketchy part of town feels just as greasy as being hit on by Mexicans in downtown Los Angeles, and yet, on some level, it feels somewhat classier. Maybe it's because it is done in French.
4. I have a pretty good head for direction...sort of. I can't really understand why or how I am learning the layout of Paris so much faster when I never could deal with New York City. Paris is not straight city blocks, but narrow streets of quaint charm and occasionally, understated elegance.
5. I must be pathetic, because I have a phobia of appearing touristlike and so am embarrassed to whip out my camera and take pictures. But no worries, I will get over myself soon. In any case, it's been really overcast/raining the last two days--I tried taking pictures today and it started pouring a minute later. Pictures of Little India will come when I manage to find it again, and I promise that you guys will have photographic evidence the next time I go to Les Champs-Elysées or L'Arc de Triomphe.
   
6. I am going to get completely spoiled in Paris. And also as fat as a tub of lard. I've been pretty good, but soon I am going to give in to the tempting calls and smells of the four boulangerie-patîsseries and two marchés within five minutes from my apartment. Foodgasm.

Madame and Monsieur are an old couple living near the border of the 8th and the 17th. I was under the impression that they were both retired, but apparently Madame still goes to work on certain days of the week. They both come from large families, and have four children of their own. I have already met several of their children and grandchildren.

The Du P. family is incredibly photogenic. Every single one of them could be models. Even the ones that married into the family. The grandchildren are the cutest beings in the world--they are the sort that makes you go, "Babies! I want one!" upon seeing them. There is one woman who had given birth to three children and still had a flat stomach. I just don't understand how Frenchwomen are so svelte. Also, Madame might be close to being a retiree, but I'm pretty sure that she is more sophisticated and fashionable than I am. By far.

Madame and Monsieur are incredibly nice and accommodating. Madame makes it a point to ask me how my day is and what I did. When I ask her for suggestions, she always has a lot of recommendations for me. Monsieur is a little quieter, but fiercely intelligent. I really enjoy talking to him about current events. I have also promised to show him how Skype works.

They have spent time in the States, so they know English well enough to give me some help when I stutter for too long. I adore them.

I find myself dealing with a weird dichotomy. During the day, it is French French French, and I feel my language skills really improving. At night, simply due to the blog or friends and family, I speak a lot of English, and then it feels like I am not. I don't know if I actually am, but it's an interesting thought/realization. Maybe you guys will just have to suffer through more of my sprinkled-in French, both in blogs and in talk. I feel better when I add in random French, comme si I am making more of an effort or something. It's probably the "or something."

It's only been two days, but...Paris, je t'aime.