comme le soleil // like the sun

Yesterday, I saw some postcards being sold, 31 for 5 Euro. They all started out with Je pense à toi, or I'm thinking of you.

'Aww...how sweet!' I thought. 'The romance!'

Except then I looked a little bit further. Sure, some of the cards had cutesie quotes like, "I do nothing else all day," and, "With you in my life, I need nothing more."

But.

There were also a couple of cards that were less...poetic.

For example:

"I am thinking about you...I spent two hours remembering the smell of your sex."

Sex. As in genitals. As in vagina.

I thought Parisians were supposed to be classy?

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.

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.

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.