French faux pas?
Another thing that made me happy after my sprint through the rain was the package I found in my mailbox. Jen has the most perfect timing of anyone I know - I swear she can read my mind. The lovely books she sent came just as I finished my back-up book today (one that I've read at least four times). I was scared I'd have to start reading the ads in the metro on the way to school everyday! I think I'll still need to take a trip to an anglophone bookstore in the near future because I have a feeling these books are going to be hard to put down. Thanks again, Jen!!
Beginner's banana-nut bread
As my first bread baking endeavor ever, I was a little worried about how it would turn out. I had all the ingredients I needed on hand except for baking soda. I knew from an earlier baking experience that I'd need to look for tiny pink packets when I went to the grocery store, but I somehow forget exactly how to say baking soda in French. I knew it was something, something chimique. So, when after searching high and low at least three or four times around every single aisle in the store, I still couldn't find what I needed, I asked someone. French folk don't really seem to be approachable, but I've figured out that all it takes is being really nice and smiling to get a positive and friendly reaction out of them. (I know I'm generalizing, but I've yet to find an exception to that generalization, so when I do, I'll be sure to let everyone know. It's pretty much the same idea with everyone, everywhere, except that in places like the US and Italy, people in general seem more approachable.)
So, I asked in my best French where I could find the soudre? chimique...je ne sais pas...le poudre pour faire le pain, mais pas le farine [in english: soudre (non-existent French word) chemical...I don't know...the powder to make bread, but not flour].
He responds, farine de mais? (Me, not really understanding) oh oui, oui, je pense oui. [Yes, yes, I think yes.]
(He motions toward the corn meal.) OH, desolé, pas ça. Il est un poudre chimique. [OH, sorry, not that. It's a chemical powder.]
(He's looking more and more confused.) Pas le farine? [Not flour?]
(Me, giving up.) Non, mais c'est pas grave. Merci beaucoup. [No, but it's OK. Thanks a lot.]
(Him, relieved that I'm going to leave him alone so he can get back to work) De rien. [You're welcome.]
I decide to take one last look at the disproportionately small section where the flour is to make sure I didn't miss anything. Sure enough, tucked waaaay back behind an empty box was an entire tray of levure chimique Alsacienne. I gave a little chuckle and snapped a photo so I could prove that the little pink packets were hiding in the back of the shelf for no one to find (except my memory card wasn't in my camera and I don't know where my cable is to connect my camera to the computer, so sorry, can't post the pic).
When it was finally time to make the bread, I realized I didn't have a loaf pan to bake it in, so I improvised and used the smallest ceramic baking dish I have. It was interesting to convert everything into grams. I used a hybrid of two recipes, and I know you're not supposed to in baking, but I tweaked the recipes a bit and even added a spoonful of Nutella just because. The end result was decent - Gui loved it , but next time I'm going to chop the walnuts up a bit more and definitely use a loaf pan - it makes a difference. And I might use a bit less sugar next time since the Nutella is so sweet. Overall, it was a success and the perfect breakfast this morning with a cup of pressed coffee.
Learning to be Parisian
As much as I'd like to say that the cause of my hibernation is that there's so much to do at our apartment, I know that it isn't. There's a part of me that's becoming a little intimidated. The feeling of being a foreigner is starting to set in for me, and that feeling has been keeping me at home everyday, away from the strange world that I'm now calling home. I'm just now realizing that I'm no longer that young college student, eager to put myself out there and dive into a foreign place and culture without hesitation. I reflect on my summer abroad in Rome and remember how brave and resourceful I was. It never crossed my mind that I should be worried about what people with think of me, of my accent or my appearance. I was so ready to submerge myself into a new culture and become one of them. The same goes for my time in England. Now, I question more, I think more, and I do less.
If I was my therapist, I'd probably tell myself that I've been feeling the need to nest as a way to make my own comfort zone in what I feel is an uncomfortable place. I'd diagnose myself with STDS (no, not that kind of STD, but the "Scared To Do Shiz" kind) and prescribe as a treatment, a day outside of my comfort zone in an effort to expand it.
So, I took that prescription on Monday and shortly after Gui left for work, I walked to the metro stop, boarded line 9 and headed toward the opposite side of town. I've been meaning to sign up for my French class, and I decided that there was no time like the present to get off my arse and do it. It takes an hour to get to the school, but I only have to change lines once, which for me is what matters most (for some reason Guillaume always looks for the shortest distance even if there are a gazillion stops, which in theory maybe saves 5 minutes if you're lucky and get a metro right away on the next line, but in practice, I'd rather save my legs some walking and leave 5 minutes earlier).
The metro is a great place to people watch, and I spent enough time on the metro to remind myself how attractive Parisians really are. Sure, Paris has its fair share of ugly folk, but it doesn't take much effort to find a really good-looking Frenchie around these parts...not that I'm looking or anything!
So, after getting off the metro and searching a few minutes around the neighborhood, I found the school (score! it happens to be 100 meters from Paris Plage) and after a little waiting, I signed up for my summer French class, and I did it all in French! It was really easy to understand the lady at reception, and everything she asked me I actually knew how to respond to in French. I think being in an environment where it's OK to sound like a jackass definitely makes me more confident in my skills. It took about an hour to get all signed up, and after that, I headed back home, across town. I made a much needed pit-stop at the post-office (I'm still a little intimidated about going there to send something other than a letter stateside because then I actually have to talk to a person, not a machine), and came back to my little comfort zone.
I'll have to find a few good reads to keep me occupied on the metro - as much fun as it was looking at the pretty people, I can only check out someone's fab 'do or swanky shoes so many times before I want to stick a heel in my eye. (In the words of my adorable nephew,) mmmmm...BORRRING. I'm taking suggestions for books to order on Amazon or to search for in the few English bookstores around town. I'm hoping to catch up on some classics that I've missed (Catcher in the Rye, War and Peace, Jane Eyre, The Prince) or philosophy (Plato, Camus, Aristotle), but I'd be interested to see what else is getting readers' attention these days.
My classes start June 30th (20-hrs/week, yo!), so for three weeks, my hibernation will cease to exist. I'm hoping to meet some new people (from what I gather, there aren't many Americans/Brits/Aussies enrolled at this school, and it has a high population of students from Eastern Europe, Asia and South America...sweet!) and I seriously can't wait to have the confidence to be out on my own in the city without such a large language barrier. Je suis très content!
Things are not always what they seem
The recipe calls for bacon, which isn't something easily or cheaply found here, and is definitely not sold at the small supermarket by our place. What is sold, however, is lardon (fatty pork pieces that taste and cook similarly to bacon) which I can't help but think was the original ingredient for this recipe until it adapted to the more commonly found bacon in the States.
I find quiche to be such a delightful, satisfying dish that's filling, tasty and just pretty to look at. While I was picking up the lardon, I grabbed the rest of the ingredients I needed: Emmental (Swiss cheese), pâte brisée, and demi-écrémé - what I assumed was half-creamed milk. It wasn't until after I mixed the demi-écrémé with the eggs that I realized something was a little different. The mixture wasn't as dark or thick as it usually is. Maybe it was the eggs? Or, maybe the cream...did I translate that correctly? I remember Gui's mom asking me what I like to have in my cafe au lait, and when I told her "half-and-half," she showed me a box of demi-écrémé, to which I nodded and replied, "yes, half-cream and milk." It seemed right, but now, as I'm thinking about it, why did she always have such a large container of demi-écrémé in her fridge when she only drank espressos? Maybe demi-écrémé isn't "half-creamed milk," heck, I don't even know what half-creamed milk is. Half cream and half-milk, no? After googling it, I realized - while the quiche was baking in the oven - that I'd used skimmed milk in my quiche, instead of half-and-half. Doh!
The quiche turned out ok, actually. It tasted great, but wasn't firm like it's supposed to be. It worked, though and Gui was happy to eat anything even remotely resembling his favorite quiche. I'm quickly learning to keep my French-English dictionary handy when grocery shopping or translating ingredients. Oh, and I also learned that half-and-half is called demi-créme or créme light or something like that; just not demi-écrémé.
Unfortunately, I feel that this isn't going to be my last airhead moment while living here. In fact, just today I went to the store to buy bottled water. After looking at the grandiose water aisle, I grabbed the bottle in front of me, read eau minerale naturelle, took two and checked out. When Gui came home just a few minutes ago and offered me a drink, he asked why I bought the weird-tasting water that makes you regular. I bought wha? Yeah, apparently, the "natural mineral water" I thought I was purchasing was actually water for old people who have trouble going. Hey, I was just looking for something to keep me hydrated, if there's a few extra minerals in there, so be it. It might actually be better for me, what with my newly-acquired cheese-enriched diet. I'm just a little embarrassed at what the cashier was thinking when all I bought were those two bottles of "regularizing" water.
The best part of the crust is the mustard spread on top and baked in before the quiche. You can taste the difference.
Meeting the Neighbors
This time of year in
The poster said everything would begin at 8pm, so right at 8, I hollered at Gui to help me take everything down. I knew we’d be one of the first to arrive, and we were, with the exception of one tenant and the host of the party (who we later came to know as the “president” of our building, even though he didn’t live there). We chatted for a bit – Gui let them know I didn’t speak French very well, and the first female we met, who happened to be young and very Austin-y I thought, spoke perfect English to me the entire night.
It all turned out pretty well, but there were some noticeable differences in how things are done around these parts compared to what I’m used to. No one served themselves from someone else’s dish until the person who brought the dish started serving it. So, that meant that no one touched my pasta until I finally got up, served myself and Gui some and asked if anyone would like some pasta. Same for the hummus. It was pretty bizarre, and it kind of bothered me that I had to ask if anyone was interested in eating the food I’d prepared – talk about being put on the spot.
We met the lady who lives next door to us, and found out she’s been living in her place for the past 50 years - we learned a lot about our building from her. Apparently, before she lived there, during the war, a bomb blew out the fourth floor of the building and when the got around to rebuilding it, they added another (5th) floor – which is the floor we live on now. It’s pretty neato, actually. The rest of the folks who live on other floors are a great mix of young and middle-aged peeps, all who were incredibly nice and completely welcoming to us newcomers. There’s only one proper family that lives in our building, and I’m not complaining about that. The two kids, though, were rather well-behaved and their parents seemed to have them in check, which is always a good thing.
Am I weird?
It could just be me, being paranoid like usual, but I'm not so sure this time. Even when I'm just walking to the grocery store to do some shopping or sitting on the metro alone, I feel like an outcast. It's like maybe they know I'm different, that I can't really hold a conversation with them the way I'd like to. Or, maybe it's not appropriate to give a small smile when I pass someone on the street or not turn my head when some dude yells, excusez-moi, mademoiselle in what sounds like a catcalling voice. I know I know I'm weird, but do they know, too? Back home I can get away with being weird and not letting anyone know...here, I think it'll take time for me to figure out a way to mask my weirdness. For now, I'll just carry on as the paranoid non-Parisian and go about my business looking for a place to fit in.