Things I Like About Paris and Life in General

Hi. Rob again, feeling slightly shame-faced that every time I write something for this blog that it comes across a bit, well...bitter. I am only the teensiest bit a bitter person; much of the time I'm feeling either fairly neutral or even somewhat pleased about things. So I thought I'd share some of these latter experiences and perhaps ask Matt to add some illustrations as well so Jessie doesn't yell at me again.

Some Thoughts sur la belle France:

Les Parfums de France/Flavors of France
We have something like eight kinds of jam now in our petite French fridge: Coing (Quince), Fraise (Strawberry), Cerise Noir (Black Cherry), Groseille (Gooseberry) and Confiture de Petalles de Rose (Rose Petal). How entirely cool is that?

Then there is the yogurt selection at our neighborhood supermarket, Monoprix. You can have yogurt from some old lady's farm out in Brittany, or yogurt made from authentic looking French cows someplace tres rustique in Normandy. You can have blackberry, strawberry, lychee, passion mango, black currant, red currant, and even rhubarb rose (I had to buy that one, will let you know how it is) yogurt. Some of them come in neat little glass jars, like souped-up baby food containers. The best.

Like pastries? (What a question.) There are two patisseries within 3 blocks of us, not counting the enormous pastry counter at Monoprix. There are the ones you'll already recognize: les eclairs (coffee or chocolate), millefeuilles (Napoleons), palmiers, Opera (mocha filled cream cake).

Then there are the uniquely French pastries: Paris Brest (wheel-shaped cream puffs filled with chestnut flavored whipped cream...yum) and les religeuses: another take on the cream puff, filled with coffee or chocolate flavored pastry cream and then iced with a yummy, chocolate-y glaze. They're called "religeuses" because they supposedly look like nuns, though I confess that I fail to see the connection.

And one shouldn't forget the many whacky fruity pastries: pistachio. passion fruit, strawberry, raspberry, black currant, apricot, pear in every shade of green, yellow, pink, red and purple, all looking quite good enough to eat if it weren't for all the chocolate/coffee flavored goodies stretched out luxuriantly next to them. We'll let you know how the former taste once we move beyond our current chocolate/cream puff fixation. Might have to wait for another trip.

Cafes

I have entered fully into the land of cliches, I realize, but let me put in yet another good word for French cafe culture. I go to cafes a lot, my 11 lb. Monster Laptop in tow, working on what might one day turn into some sort of novel thing, maybe. My point, though, is not about writing, but about the remarkable cultural agreement in France that a person has the absolute right to sit down at a table, order a drink...and then keep on sitting, empty drink by one's side, for as long as one is able to brazen one's way through the day. As an American, I find I can last about 1/2 hour before breaking down and ordering something else, whether I want it or not. The French, however, and Parisians especially, can sit for HOURS. The key, it seems, is to have one of the following three things in one's possession:

1) A half-full, or even long empty, demitasse of espresso. There's something about the sacred nature of espresso drinking in Europe that allows the drinker to do about anything he or she wants, as long as they are hunched over a little tiny cup on a little tiny saucer.

2) As good as espresso, perhaps even better, is a pack of cigarettes laying on the table. I don't even think you have to smoke them; indeed, I've considered buying a pack so I can cart it around from cafe to cafe and thereby gain immunity from waiterly glares. Because once you've got your cigs on the table, everyone knows you'll be hanging out for at least 2 hours--and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

3) Another person. You don't even have to be talking, though as this is Paris, everyone seems to be discussing critically important subjects all the time. It can give a person a bit of a complex; when Matt and I sit down, for example, inevitably the conversation drifts into brief sentences that usually go something like this:

"So, Addy was a bit of a pain this morning, huh?"
"Yeah, she's really getting into her Terrible Twos these days."
"Yeah, she is."
Slurp, slurp.

At this point we've probably only been sitting for 10 minutes but you can bet we are already feeling guilty and wondering what we should order next. Meanwhile, the handsomely dressed couple next to us are arguing about the current situation in South Ossetia or the latest Sartre/de Beauvoir anthology...I think I'm going to spring for a pack of Lucky Strikes. I suspect it'll make me feel so much better.

The Inexpressible Joy of Being in Paris
I don't know, maybe it's the fact that autumn is around the corner, or that I've now turned 40, or that I've got so much pastry surging through my veins that I'm preternaturally pleased with life, but the final thing I'd like to natter on and on about is the inexpressible joy one often feels simply walking around Paris. For example: I went to the Cite de l'Immigration yesterday, a remarkable Art Deco, "Temple of Luxoresque" building constructed for the 1931 Colonial Exposition. It's a particularly striking, even heroic, building, in large part because of the enormous bas relief that covers the entire front of the building. About 50 ft. tall by 150 ft. across, it looks like one of those gigantic Assyrian temple carvings, except that this one illustrates the people and products of the Great French Empire circa the 20s and 30s. Horribly racist, imperialist, sexist, you name it -ist, but still, to my mind, weirdly beautiful.

I walked around it, then got a cup of (you guessed it!) espresso and went back outside to the slightly shabby terrace to read my Histoire francaise book, French-English dictionary close to hand. The horse chestnut trees outside were green and lovely, the Art Deco interior was vast and impressively gloomy, and then I scurried back down (on my way to meet Cleaning Lady #2, see previous Blog entry) into the Metro, emerging at the Place de la Republique surrounded by women in full African boubous, Turkish kebab stores, REAL, like-they-talk-about-in-cookbooks-but-that-don't-really-exist-in-the-U.S. butcher shops, and lots and lots of French looking people (hard to describe, but you know them when you see them). And it's sort of overwhelming simply being here. And now you're walking down your block, baguette in hand (and it's entirely normal to be swinging your baguette along, thinking French thoughts) and for a moment there are no tantrum-throwing children to confront, no worries that the Dems will once again muff a presidential election, or that (worse) Americans are, on the whole, too stupid to vote in a way that will actually serve them better. There are no SUVS or rows of soulless MacMansions stretching to the horizon, no giant chain stores or grumpy Jersey drivers.

Look, I'm no dummy. Not usually. There are still horrifically cynical French politics, dog crap on every pavement in Paris, and unemployment that hovers around, what...12%? 15%? It's simply the golden glow of alone time spent in a beautiful city, the illusion of "time enough" to wander a bit, moments when something ineffable moves in and through you, and the pulse--the pulse of pastry cream oozing through your bloodstream, making everything...just...a...little...bit...better. Aah. La belle France; je t'adore.

See, told you I wasn't always bitter.