Strange things I'm going to miss about France when I go home

Alright, so I've talked about being homesick, missing outlets, and being so tired of French men hitting on me. Good Lord.

But there's a lot I'm going to miss about France.

Number one being daily trash service. THIS IS THE COOLEST THING EVER.

Forget to take out the trash? No worries, do it tomorrow.

Know how we take it out? Throw it next to our doors and the trash guys come by and pick it up. Done!

You have no idea how awesome this is. All I gotta do to take out the trash is tie up the bag and throw it outside. And it doesn't matter when I do it either! No more "Oh crap, it's Monday morning!"

It's awesome.

I'm a fan.

Avoiding Homesickness

I have a long-standing theory that it is a very bad idea to try to “go home” before you can actually go home.

This is, I find, especially true when talking about food. Actually, it nearly entirely applies to food, although I imagine it might apply to American Football games here as well…

Point being – if you attempt to “go home” with food while you’re abroad, you’re going to be strongly disappointed and realize just how “not home” you are.

I realized this when I was abroad for the first time. I got really sick on one of our last days in Paris, and, as I was getting better, I wanted Don’s spaghetti. My parents go out for the night and come back with take-out spaghetti. It was delicious, perfectly seasoned and buttered and sauced. It was wonderful. But it wasn’t Don’s spaghetti. It was French spaghetti.

One that’s happened to nearly everyone on our program: the French Hot Dog. Apparently all the Americans studying abroad this semester adore hot dogs, since we’ve all hit this one. But if you order a hot dog here they will, most likely, slice it up and put it on a baguette with lettuce, tomatoes, and the sauce of your choice. Not. A. Hot. Dog.

Now I love trying new foods, and one of my favorite things about traveling is trying things I wouldn’t get back home. And the French-baguette-hot-dogs are rather delicious, if you make sure to tack on “French style” in your head at the end of your order.

But when you’re already dreadfully homesick, probably feeling down, and wandering hopelessly around thinking about how far away from your friends, family, and an understandable university system you really are, and you suddenly see a sign for a hot dog and think, “That sounds perfect! How comforting would that be? A hot dog!” Then you order a hot dog, thinking of the juicy, beefy goodness of an American hot dog, unadulterated by any vegetable, on a fluffy, airy bun, smothered in ketchup,

And you get a sandwich that just uses hot dog as the meat.

It’s the final straw that makes you realize how far away from home you are and how long you have until you go home again. And it’s entirely distressing.

Anyway, it’s a bad idea all around. Just continue walking. Don’t fall to the siren call.

But there’s a reason I’ve explained my theory. It’s because I fell into the trap, despite being fully aware of it. “Don’t do it!” I said, multiple times. “You’ll regret it!” I warned myself.

But no. I really

Really

Really

Wanted cookies.

The French make delicious pastries. They do. But they cannot make cookies. You could take the greatest French chef of all time, bet him $100 and a French meal that he can’t make a chocolate chip cookie, and you would win this bet. Maybe it’s below them. I mean, compare a cookie to the fabulous tarts in all the patisseries here, and it does seem pretty lowly and unassuming.

Now there are cookies in France. They’re just not what an American would deem cookie worthy. First – they’re hard. Always. They’re quite crunchy. There’s not a gooey inch in sight. Second – they nearly always use dark chocolate chips. While I know there are proponents of dark chocolate out there, I’m not one of them. I fall very firmly on the milk and white chocolate side of life. It’s very distressing to find that the entire country of France disagrees with me. I’m living in a dark-chocolate lover’s Heaven.

But I wanted cookies.

Gooey, half-baked, milk-chocolate-chip cookies.

So I decided to make some.

This was greeted with enthusiasm among my American friends; three of us decide to set off to the grocery store, confident we know how to make chocolate chip cookies, how hard can it be?

First step – buy chocolate chips.

We don’t find any. We scour the entire store. Nothing. Confused but hopeful, we settle on a bag of M&Ms, because really, they’re almost the same thing.

We continue down our list – flour, sugar, milk, eggs, vanilla – everything’s going great so far. Brown sugar.

No brown sugar. Anywhere. Still hopeful, we decide we can add extra regular sugar and vanilla and create something similar to the cookies we all so crave.

So we go in search of baking soda, ready to try to make our cookies.

No baking soda is to be found.

But we’re still determined. How much baking soda did they have during the frontier days? Surely they had cookies out there. I think I remember Laura Ingles Wilder writing something about cookies. What’s the point of settling vast amounts of land if there aren’t cookies?

So we bring our ingredients back to my apartment where my French roommates join us as we make our cookies. Using the “tasting” method, we create something similar to cookie batter. With some hasty guessing conversions, my roommates and I pick a temperature for the stove (which is in Celsius).

Five minutes later, we have… something similar to a cookie. It’s gooey looking, has chocolate and sugar, and probably would have done the trick. Honestly, had we stopped here, we probably would have been successful enough to satisfy our cravings.

Except we make our final mistake.

We listen to the advice of my French roommates.

Remember my previous statement. There are cookies in France, just nothing an American would deem cookie-worthy. And remember why.

And thus their advice – “It’s not done! Put it back in the oven for another ten to fifteen minutes!”

And we do.

Ten minutes later, biting into a perfect replica of the hard, crunchy, un-cookie-like cookies that are cookies in France, I got that feeling again.

Shouldn’t have tried to go home.

*

But I don’t want this post to have an unhappy ending. This theory only holds true to food from home cooked by someone who’s not from your home. Cookie-disaster aside, usually cooking’s a safe bet – if you cook it, it’s what you were expecting. Had Don been able to make me spaghetti in France, it still would have been Don Spaghetti. This is just one of those extreme cases.

Upon the failure of the cookies, we made Mexican food, it was delicious, and it did satisfy that spicy, Mexican food craving which was, honestly, stronger than the cookie craving. We were successful in the end. Happy ending!

*

PS - Baking soda does exist in France. Apparently you buy it at the pharmacies. It’s not out, you have to go up to the pharmacist and ask for it. This is what I’ve been told; I haven’t tried to get it yet. And brown sugar also exists, according to my roommates. Also, molasses would have worked. They were however stumped as to why they would even make milk chocolate chips. We’re determined to try again and succeed. Partially because we never learn our lesson, but now it’s also a matter of showing my roommates what real cookies should taste like.

*

PPS from several days later (since I write these before I post them) – Betty Crocker Cookie Mix has been found! It is also in the treasure trove of a store that sells Kraft Mac and Cheese, Pop Tarts, Dr Pepper, and Cadbury Eggs. Hurray! Thank you, numerous American and English expatriates who refuse to leave behind their easy food, tons of tea, and other cookie-like items. (It is a mostly British store, so there are lots of other non-cookie like cookies (“biscuits,” although they’re not biscuit like either).)

Running Abroad

So I've continued, albeit not as regularly, my running habit. And I wanted to comment on what is apparently a French pastime.

Careening.

I thought, when I first arrived, that "meandering" might be appropriate to describe how the Aixoise walk. Then I switched to "wandering." But I've realized they have a much more determined and violent air in their walking. They don't meander, they careen. There is absolutely no possible way to determine where a fellow pedestrian will go when they start coming at you and they will not, under any circumstances, move to accommodate you, even if there are five of them abreast and there's clearly no space for another pedestrian to move to accommodate them. I have been run into walls, off of sidewalks, into trash-cans. Aixoise will not share the road. If you add in that a frighteningly large number of them are carrying (and waving) cigarettes in their hands, it becomes a terrifying prospect as a runner.

Don't get me wrong, a lot of these people I'm talking about are little old ladies, and I'm firmly of the opinion that little old ladies can chose to walk wherever they want and it's my job as young-person and runner to get out of their way. If I only knew which way they would go! Since either my "fellow pedestrian radar" is completely a-whack, or, as previously proposed, they're careening without thought for life or limb, this is a nearly impossible task.

It's like playing Frogger with your life.

Strange things I miss #2 & #3

Okay, first, I would like to announce that today I answered a question in class! In front of all the other students! And, upon being asked, I reminded the professor what reading she had given us last week. Huge victory!

Now, back to strange things I miss. Although neither of these are really things I miss, more just... difficulties in speaking normally...

Being able to make small talk.

I realize this falls roughly under “Speaking English” as one of those things I should have expected to miss. But I actually really enjoy speaking French, and I can do it, although by no means perfectly, pretty well. My conversations are filled with many grammatical errors and mispronounced words, but they’re recognizable as conversations.

But there’s the whole other heading under this category. Small talk. Especially, and specifically, small talk made while standing in lines, which, by the way, happens quite often (lines, or what passes for them in France).

For example, today, at the grocery store, I was carrying two large bundles of toilet paper (it was my turn to buy) that were unwieldy, but obviously not very heavy. A very nice looking man in front of me asks if I want to put them on the checkout counter. (Small but relatively important side note – the check out rolling… things… that brings your food closer to the cashier are really very short at this store. Placing my toilet paper there would have taken up the whole… what ARE those things called?... and been very much in this man’s way.) I smile and say, “Thank you, no.” But it’s so frustrating that I can’t say, “Oh, no, thanks, they don’t weigh anything, it’s no big deal.” Or, “Thanks! But it’s alright, don’t worry about it.” Or, “Nah, thanks, I’m tough” and then make some sort of flexing motion to show how little they weigh and how strong I am. Anything, really. It’s tough to be formal all the time. “Non, merci” and a smile are just about all I’ve got.

Speaking of being formal and “Strange thing I miss #3,” is knowing the nuances of etiquette. I’ve got the big ones – hands above the table, don’t chew with your mouth open, smile and say hello to people you meet, etc. – really, they’re pretty much the same (except for the hands above the table during the meal, but that’s one I think that American’s say you shouldn’t do [“Hands in your lap!”] and then do anyway). These aren’t what are causing me distress.

Instead, it’s when to say “Thank you.” During the last day of the two-week intensive course we had when we first got here, our professor says, “Ah, Americans, you say ‘thank you’ all the time. Why? It’s insulting!”

“Insulting???” We reply, since we certainly say “Thank you” all the time for the express purpose of being not-insulting. This is news.

“Well, yes,” our (very stately, patches-on-the-jacket-elbows style) professor replies. “It implies that what this person did for you they normally wouldn’t have done. That they’re not normally that nice.”

Since then, and mind you, that’s nearly two solid months ago, I’ve been absolutely terrified I’m accidently insulting people by telling them “thank you.”

There is an alternative, used especially between students and young people. Translated, it is “You’re really nice!” But I don’t want to tell somebody they’re nice when I’m supposed to say thank you, so usually I end up with something like “Thanks, you’re really nice!”

Naturally, I’m trying to listen to native French speakers to hear when they say one versus the other, but I’m still stumped on this one. I picked up a coin for somebody at the market, and he said I was nice. Then I did it again a few weeks later, and the guy said thanks. (Maybe the second one thought I was terribly rude and wouldn’t normally pick up dropped coins for strangers?)

For now, I’m just going to continue saying “Thanks! You’re really nice!” and hoping (as the stereotype goes) that they know I’m American and thus say “thank you” all the time anyway.

That or my professor has played an evil evil joke on us all.

Raclette

So last night I had a conversation exchange, in which I helped the two sons of a family with their English homework in exchange for a dinner held in French. I win in three ways, one, it's time for me to practice French, two, it's a free dinner, and, as I discovered last night, three, is that the mother of the family happens to be a fabulous cook, so it's a fabulous French meal. For free, which is a big deal.

Last night we had Raclette. Which is simple, easy, and more delicious than anything I've had here so far (because I'm cooking for myself and doing so on a student's budget). I'm bringing this meal back to the States (although I'm sure it's already there). Basically, it's potatoes, ham, pickles, and melted cheese; but with the invention of the table-top cheese melter, it's as much fun as fondu!

Also, I taught them about asking Oreos questions. We didn't have Oreos around for me to demonstrate, so they're still skeptical about asking a cookie a question, even after my assurances that this is a no-fail way to see universal truths and to find out if Jimmy has a crush on you.

But the real reason of this post is to offer fore-warning. The mother of the family asked whether I'd eaten snails yet or not. I haven't.

She will be changing this at some point.

Her sons have, for a while, been bugging her to try cooking frog legs again.

These will probably also be in my future eating horizons.

I'm excited.

Bizarre things I miss, #1

So there are things I expect to miss - like friends and family and classes in English. There's obviously the entire section of "food." But then there are the things I wasn't expecting to miss, like...

American-style outlets

This isn't because I don't have a converter and just wish that all my things could plug in anywhere. I do have a converter, and most of my things (of the four I can think of anyway) are now French style outlets anyway. But the plugs! They're so big and unwieldy. And the outlets for them are these huge, gaping wholes in the walls. They're just not pretty in the least, and slowly, as time passes, I become more and more afraid of them. I miss the tiny, petite, graceful American outlets.

Yup. Bizarre things I miss.

A non-exciting post about classes

So I'm sick. And France has no chicken-noodle soup OR macaroni and cheese. What do ill French people eat? And it turns out that a semester abroad has actually class work involved (who knew?). Anyway, all of these things, although mostly the first two, have combined to make me grumpy-mc-grumperson for the past week. But I'm feeling better now, and thought I'd share my class list with all y'all so you don't think I'm over here traveling and enjoying myself all the time.

Written Expression - Monday, 3 to 5 PM - This class is exactly what it sounds like. Written. Expression. We write and talk about writing in French. The plus side is that the professor will read over any papers we turn in here and critique them for us. That's about it, think an intense grammar and writing class.

Hell, Paradise: A History of Man - Tuesday, 11 to 3 PM - Yeah, that's a four hour class. The professors switch out after two hours - so from 11 to 1 we study modern interpretations of Hell and Heaven (although, since we're studying the modern period, it's admittedly mostly Hell). Professor 1 is... interesting. Last class he was wearing a quilted, army-green onesie that zipped up the front. I've never been so worried a zipper was going to fail. Another class he was wearing leather pants, which I'm just not used to professors wearing. He's a lot of fun though; I think I like him because he's a) interesting and b) talking about the history of literature I'm interested in anyway. But we're reading Rimbaud and Artaud for his part of the class. Professor 2 for this class, from 1 to 3 PM is a lot less exciting and does ancient interpretations of Heaven and Hell. Sometime in the 12th century, they rewrote the Aeneid in French. So we're reading part of that. It took me a long time to figure out who Eneas was (pronounced with a French accent, it's understandable).

Discovering Opera - Tuesday, 4 to 7 PM - I love this class. We watch operas and discuss them. Love! Later we're going to the factory where they make the costumes for the local opera festival every summer.

Fundamental French Texts - Wednesday, 3 to 5 - Only two hours! Holy crap! What a short class! We're reading Baudelaire right now, the professor is great but hard to understand (for a non-French speaker). This is the first class I learned a rule of being a foreign student in France - never admit to knowing what a professor is talking about. The professor asked who knew Dos Passos and I tentatively raised my hand. His first response, "Well of course, you're an anglophone..." made me smile, his second, "Well, why don't you explain it to the class?" just terrified me. So again, never admit to knowing anything in a French class. Ever.

Stories of Real and Imaginary Voyages - Thursday, 8 to 12 - Another two professor class. The first professor is really really boring. We're reading Terre Australe Connue (Australia... known? As in discovered?) which is from the 1600s and really difficult and boring. So that's exciting. The second professor is much better, and very nice. And she's very tuned in to the "confused anglophone" face and somehow always knows when she needs to write a word on the board. She's doing the "real" voyages part of the class, although I'm not entirely sure if that's true because we started with Bergerac's Voyage to the MOON. Which is entirely unreal. So I'm not entirely sure how the class is split up, since at the moment it seems like entirely imaginary voyages, but we're beginning real ones soon.

Faux-class for Foreign Students - Friday, 10 to 12 - this class is with the same professor who is teaching the Fundamental French Texts class. It's basically "all those books French kids read in high school and you didn't." There are no tests or essays, just reading and talking, which is a relief.

There you have it. I AM doing work here.