What am I chasing? I asked myself this question on my train ride to work the other day. Thoroughly exhausted from my two jobs, GRE studying, freelance writing, trying to learn french, graduate school applications, and running, I finally paused and probed the question--am I enjoying my life here in Paris?
I have always been one to push for the best, in everything. I like running, so I should do a marathon. I want to be a writer, so I should go to graduate school. I want to get better at math, so I should spend all my free time working on it. But why? Why should I do all of these things? What am I trying to prove? And to whom?
Americans flirt a fine line with discipline, success, and the never-ending quest for superiority. I have trained myself to believe that I am never good enough--I could always do better, look better, write better. For the most part this trait has lead me to great success. However, it also pushes me into a constant cycle of achievement. I am chasing the perfect version of myself. Coming to this realization was extremely sobering, as well as saddening. I finally admitted that even when I accomplished all of the goals I set before myself, I was never happy with the outcome. I could have done better.
So as I sat on my quiet train, studying flashcards and trying not to think about everything else I needed to do in order to become a perfect human being that I could finally love and be proud of, I became extremely conscious of the American in me. Here I am, a twenty-two year old college graduate living in Paris and all I can focus on is my future endeavors. This is not to say that I have not been appreciating this city, but I have certainly been limiting my present moments with future concerns. Shouldn't I be emulating the Parisians? Taking two-hour lunches, having endless coffee dates with friends, not overloading myself with perfection? You think the French care if they make 200,000 a year and drive a porsche? Not so much.
I do not know if I will ever find perfection, especially in myself. Moreover, I do not know where the notion that I needed to mold myself into a being of accomplishment derived from. Could I not be content with my present self? That what I was doing was enough to satisfy my own standards? Didn't I come here to have an adventure and advance my French. And that was it? All of these questions plagued my current choices--who was I trying to impress? The American mindset is that of success in every aspect. Be the best at everything and you will be happy. Be rich, be in shape, graduate from multiple high-ranked institutions, have an enviable reputation. But after living in Paris I have started to wonder--is this truly success?
Parisians make fun of us Americans, we who slave to make it to the top of a constantly ascending ladder. We who do so much, want so much all the time. As a country we need to be one of the top, if not the top, in the world; America needs to be the greatest.
Well, what will make me the greatest? The answer to this question--obviously--is a mystery. However, my long list of accomplishments fall on my own deaf ears when I asses myself and my performance. I can not look at what I have done in the past or what I have become--it is all about looking forward.
So I looked forward, and became unhappy. I was unhappy in Paris. This was definitely not success. Somehow I had moved to an amazing city and overloaded myself with American standards of achievement. Straddling these two cultural mindsets has taught me a great deal about personal acceptance and drive. Though I always need to be "doing" something, I should take time to praise my efforts and outcomes.
Perhaps I will be able to do nothing all day and then go out and drink wine, stay out until sunrise and sleep the next day away.
On the other hand, I can look at the accounts I follow on twitter, mainly the health, running and trainer profiles and stress out about the fact that my abs are not rock hard, I am not up at 6 am doing 100 sit ups, nor do I eat all whole grains and vegetables all the time.
Which would you choose?
I mimic America when it comes to glorifying performance. If my performance, in any aspect, is not up to my own standards, then I have failed. Failed who? Good question, as I am the only one who is dubbing myself "a failure."
Thus I have decided to stop. Though I will never be able to escape my "do-er" personality, as that is the American in me, I can learn to appreciate the present moments that truly define happiness. Success no longer has to be defined as a daily checklist, but perhaps a tranquil day spent people-watching and reading. I have promised myself that after my graduate applications are in I am taking on no more. No more quest for perfection. And I will truly try to stop taking things I love, such as running or writing, and transforming them into competitions. Because, lets face it, it's really no fun when you are the only one in the race and the only person to beat is yourself.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Too much French for a Tuesday...the day of OFII
OFII, The Office of Immigration, is an experience that all long sejour visa holders must go through. Luckily, my time had come. In order to stay (legally) in France, one must obtain a special sticker from OFII that allows you in and out of the country. Also, you cannot miss this appointment because they do not reschedule, so if you are out on the country on break, tough luck. Of course my appointment was in the outskirts of Paris in a town called Montrouge, aka, bumfuck nowhere (pardon my language).
I wake up that morning with a terrible sore throat and slight fever, which makes running through the overcrowded Place d'Italie metro a real joy.
I get off the metro, take in the dreariness, and start my search for the OFII office. Luckily there are huge signs directing you from the metro to the office. I imagine that this office is the only reason people come to Montrouge. Located across the street from the Jardin d'Asie is one of the most depressing places you will ever go.
I enter, hand the receptionist my passport and appointment paper and am then directed to a small room filled with screaming children and other depressed looking people. Ten minutes later a group of us are called and walked into a more depressing room where we wait some more. Finally my name is called. I am asked by a nurse my name, passport, telephone number, and if I am pregnant. Thus begins my medical examination.
We are herded, assembly line style, through a series of minor examinations. First, height and weight. Then you return to your position in the assembly line, where you shuffle from seat to seat until you reach your next destination: eye examination. MDV. I explain that I have a problem with my left eye and cannot see well out of it. I am asked if I can read with it.
"Of course," I reply.
"Read this line up close."
"Good, you can read. You are done."
And back to my little seat I go. The third exam is a chest x ray. Each individual is then lead to a little room where they are instructed to strip from the waist up. There is a lovely picture of a women happily holding her breasts as an instructional guide. Ok, great--stripped and standing I await the next step. 10 minutes later. Still standing, topless, in my little room holding my chest. I am tempted to grab the newspaper I brought to read, but I fear that as soon as I move the door will open and some man will appear and I will be standing there, topless, trying to read my newspaper. So I wait. Finally the door opens and I am asked for my paper. I awkwardly attempt to grab the paper from my belongings while holding my chest with the other hand. Success. Door closes. Two minutes later I am led to the x-ray room. The kind doctor presses me against the x-ray board, arranges my elbows outwards and tells me to breathe deeply. Done. I am allowed to get dressed and return to my little spot along the chairs.
(Mind you the room is like a loop and we are scooting along these chairs in loop fashion, hitting every little room along the way).
Final examination is a regular check up with a sweet old doctor who I again have to get undressed in front of, luckily I can keep my bra on. I am perfectly healthy. What a surprise.
I go and hand my papers to the receptionist and she then directs me to the Visa section. Shortly thereafter my name is called and I walk into another room with my arm full of papers. I give her everything, but of course, since I have changed addresses, I need a photocopy of a paper I don't have.
"You need this paper. You have to come back at 2 pm."
Of course I do. It's 12:15 and it takes about 30 minutes back and forth. I sprint out of OFII, to the metro and then home. I pass an Internet cafe close to our place and ask if they have a photocopier.
"Yes, yes. Very good price."
Great, I'll be right back. I sprint home, jump into the shower, stuff a rice cake into my face (I have been gone for hours and didn't have a chance to eat breakfast) find said paper, pack my over night bag ( I sleep at my family's Tuesday nights) and run back out the door to the Internet cafe. It's closed. I look at the sign and see that he closes at 1:30 until 3:00. My watch says 1:10. So French. I start knocking on the door and he comes out from the "Food House" next door.
"Oh I will open for you, hang on."
"Oh Thank you so much! It's urgent," I say to him as he disappears inside.
Five minutes later and nothing. Silently cursing this country I knock again. A young man approaches and also knocks on the door.
"It's closed," he tells me.
"No, he said he would open it. It's not 1:30 yet."
"He will open it after he eats, probably in an hour. There is another Internet cafe down the street." He points in the opposite direction of the metro, so off I sprint down the street with my computer in my overnight bag ramming against my knee. I get the copies done and sprint back up the street to the metro a few minutes later. Of course the other Internet cafe is now open.
Feeling pretty great about myself I realize I have enough time to get to St. Lazare and grab a Starbucks to treat myself for successfully enduring this awful experience.
After watching a heavy-set woman obsessively sniff a thin piece of paper and a homeless woman shout curse words at fellow metro passengers I arrive at St. Lazare with 30 minutes to spare.
I order my drink at Starbucks, and of course my French bank card (which just worked yesterday) will not work. I do not have enough euros to pay for my 4 euro little coffee, so I embarrassingly tell the barista I will go and find my bank and see what is wrong and then come back for my coffee. Do you think there were any LCL banks in the vicinity of that Starbucks? Of course not. So I ended up taking a twenty minute walk and then catching my train to work.
And that was my Tuesday morning and Afternoon.
I wake up that morning with a terrible sore throat and slight fever, which makes running through the overcrowded Place d'Italie metro a real joy.
I get off the metro, take in the dreariness, and start my search for the OFII office. Luckily there are huge signs directing you from the metro to the office. I imagine that this office is the only reason people come to Montrouge. Located across the street from the Jardin d'Asie is one of the most depressing places you will ever go.
I enter, hand the receptionist my passport and appointment paper and am then directed to a small room filled with screaming children and other depressed looking people. Ten minutes later a group of us are called and walked into a more depressing room where we wait some more. Finally my name is called. I am asked by a nurse my name, passport, telephone number, and if I am pregnant. Thus begins my medical examination.
We are herded, assembly line style, through a series of minor examinations. First, height and weight. Then you return to your position in the assembly line, where you shuffle from seat to seat until you reach your next destination: eye examination. MDV. I explain that I have a problem with my left eye and cannot see well out of it. I am asked if I can read with it.
"Of course," I reply.
"Read this line up close."
"Good, you can read. You are done."
And back to my little seat I go. The third exam is a chest x ray. Each individual is then lead to a little room where they are instructed to strip from the waist up. There is a lovely picture of a women happily holding her breasts as an instructional guide. Ok, great--stripped and standing I await the next step. 10 minutes later. Still standing, topless, in my little room holding my chest. I am tempted to grab the newspaper I brought to read, but I fear that as soon as I move the door will open and some man will appear and I will be standing there, topless, trying to read my newspaper. So I wait. Finally the door opens and I am asked for my paper. I awkwardly attempt to grab the paper from my belongings while holding my chest with the other hand. Success. Door closes. Two minutes later I am led to the x-ray room. The kind doctor presses me against the x-ray board, arranges my elbows outwards and tells me to breathe deeply. Done. I am allowed to get dressed and return to my little spot along the chairs.
(Mind you the room is like a loop and we are scooting along these chairs in loop fashion, hitting every little room along the way).
Final examination is a regular check up with a sweet old doctor who I again have to get undressed in front of, luckily I can keep my bra on. I am perfectly healthy. What a surprise.
I go and hand my papers to the receptionist and she then directs me to the Visa section. Shortly thereafter my name is called and I walk into another room with my arm full of papers. I give her everything, but of course, since I have changed addresses, I need a photocopy of a paper I don't have.
"You need this paper. You have to come back at 2 pm."
Of course I do. It's 12:15 and it takes about 30 minutes back and forth. I sprint out of OFII, to the metro and then home. I pass an Internet cafe close to our place and ask if they have a photocopier.
"Yes, yes. Very good price."
Great, I'll be right back. I sprint home, jump into the shower, stuff a rice cake into my face (I have been gone for hours and didn't have a chance to eat breakfast) find said paper, pack my over night bag ( I sleep at my family's Tuesday nights) and run back out the door to the Internet cafe. It's closed. I look at the sign and see that he closes at 1:30 until 3:00. My watch says 1:10. So French. I start knocking on the door and he comes out from the "Food House" next door.
"Oh I will open for you, hang on."
"Oh Thank you so much! It's urgent," I say to him as he disappears inside.
Five minutes later and nothing. Silently cursing this country I knock again. A young man approaches and also knocks on the door.
"It's closed," he tells me.
"No, he said he would open it. It's not 1:30 yet."
"He will open it after he eats, probably in an hour. There is another Internet cafe down the street." He points in the opposite direction of the metro, so off I sprint down the street with my computer in my overnight bag ramming against my knee. I get the copies done and sprint back up the street to the metro a few minutes later. Of course the other Internet cafe is now open.
Feeling pretty great about myself I realize I have enough time to get to St. Lazare and grab a Starbucks to treat myself for successfully enduring this awful experience.
After watching a heavy-set woman obsessively sniff a thin piece of paper and a homeless woman shout curse words at fellow metro passengers I arrive at St. Lazare with 30 minutes to spare.
I order my drink at Starbucks, and of course my French bank card (which just worked yesterday) will not work. I do not have enough euros to pay for my 4 euro little coffee, so I embarrassingly tell the barista I will go and find my bank and see what is wrong and then come back for my coffee. Do you think there were any LCL banks in the vicinity of that Starbucks? Of course not. So I ended up taking a twenty minute walk and then catching my train to work.
And that was my Tuesday morning and Afternoon.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Fran and Friends-giving
This November marked my first Thanksgiving sans family and America. I also had to take the GRE on Thanksgiving and tried to forget the horrific experience by buying a Starbucks holiday drink and wandering around the mall for hours before going to work. Needless to say, Thanksgiving was a bit of a downer.
However, I am done with that test (for now) and ended up buying a ridiculously expensive skirt as a reward for my four hours of misery. Best part about the end of that week was that my family (french family) hosted a Fransgiving dinner for Ariana and I on Friday. I was so excited to a) have a home-cooked meal and b) celebrate the holiday in anyway possible. Eloise (my "mom") cooked an amazing four course french meal, complete with champagne aperitifs and lots of red wine.
The first course was a delicious salad in a light vinegar dressing topped with toast and foie gras. For those of you who have never heard of this French delicacy, you probably don't want to, it's basically goose or duck liver and fat. However, this kind was really good and I was able to eat almost half of my portion ( I am usually not a huge fan)
Ensuite, we had tender chicken in a thick prune and olive sauce, mashed potatoes, bread, chestnuts and lots of wine. Comme d'habitude, I smothered everything with the sauce and was a very happy camper. The chestnuts--which I have never had--were really wonderful. She cooked them until soft with butter and I believe I tasted some cinnamon. Yum.
Then, of course, we had cheese. The French always have cheese and bread after the meal and before dessert. Eloise served Vaucherin, a speciality cheese only released in the fall. It is produced in the north-east of France and has a very strong, nutty flavor. It also literally melts in your mouth. I adored it, though Ari was not a huge fan.
Here is some background on vaucherin:
"The Vacherin identified as du Haut-Doubs is a very special cheese protected by French law. At the peak of perfection from November to March, by regulation it can be made only from the milk of two breeds of mountain cow during the winter months when their feed is natural hay. Indeed, the cheese originated in hard weather when farmers had to make their own small cheeses or lose the milk money – or so the story goes."
Et voila:
For dessert Eloise bought us cheesecake. It was such a sweet and unexpected surprise, as the French do not do cheesecake, though they adore it. We stayed, drank and chatted until 11--typical French dinner--and then ran to catch the sncf train to take us back to Paris. I had a wonderful time and was so touched that they put in so much effort to celebrate our holiday. Not to mention I have been dreaming about that chicken sauce ever since...
Friendsgiving:
Ari and I decided to host a little Thanksgiving get-together for forsaken American kids in Paris. We decided on the Sunday after Thanksgiving so we would have ample time to shop, cook, and I wouldn't have to study. However, we got behind schedule with too much chatting and guests arrived while I was still in my sweat pants. Also, we kind of forgot that we have a microwave-oven, meaning you can only put one thing in at a time. So when you have to make pumpkin bread, chicken, turkey, cornbread, and heat up everyone else's dishes that they brought, it becomes a bit of a catastrophe.
I was in charge of pumpkin bread, chicken, a cheese plate and a gorgonzola, pear and honey crostini. Ari did the cranberry sauce and turkey roast. We also had 2 pounds (not joking) of macaroni and cheese, baguettes, mashed potatoes, green beans, more green beans, cheesey corn, stuffing, gravy, salad, apple tartes, pumpkin pie, and a delicious pear tart. For 10 people. We were literally throwing away heaps of food because our half fridge could not anything else.
We were all Americans, minus one Irishman and one Canadian, and it was a nice, quiet dinner party. Everyone was just happy to be in the presence of stuffing, wine, and other Americans. We were a little stressed trying to figure out how to re-heat the food (tried to put the plastic plates in the microwave, which resulted in a melting issue. Pans did not fit in the oven, so we removed food from said pans and put them into smaller plates. Ari's turkey didn't make its appearance until an hour after we ate.) But we managed! I have not eaten that much in one sitting in months, so I was physically in pain for the rest of the night. But it was SO worth it. But I think thats going to be the last time I am not in America over Thanksgiving...there is just something about that holiday that I never want to go without.
Check out my bread and chicken!
Chicken recipe:
Whole chicken stuffed with salt, pepper, thyme and a whole lemon (halved)
covered in garlic, salt, pepper
cooked all together with carrots, onions, garlic, celery in a red wine, vinegar, olive oil sauce
And the hosts :)
However, I am done with that test (for now) and ended up buying a ridiculously expensive skirt as a reward for my four hours of misery. Best part about the end of that week was that my family (french family) hosted a Fransgiving dinner for Ariana and I on Friday. I was so excited to a) have a home-cooked meal and b) celebrate the holiday in anyway possible. Eloise (my "mom") cooked an amazing four course french meal, complete with champagne aperitifs and lots of red wine.
The first course was a delicious salad in a light vinegar dressing topped with toast and foie gras. For those of you who have never heard of this French delicacy, you probably don't want to, it's basically goose or duck liver and fat. However, this kind was really good and I was able to eat almost half of my portion ( I am usually not a huge fan)
Ensuite, we had tender chicken in a thick prune and olive sauce, mashed potatoes, bread, chestnuts and lots of wine. Comme d'habitude, I smothered everything with the sauce and was a very happy camper. The chestnuts--which I have never had--were really wonderful. She cooked them until soft with butter and I believe I tasted some cinnamon. Yum.
Eloise mad fun of me for taking pictures of my food.
Then, of course, we had cheese. The French always have cheese and bread after the meal and before dessert. Eloise served Vaucherin, a speciality cheese only released in the fall. It is produced in the north-east of France and has a very strong, nutty flavor. It also literally melts in your mouth. I adored it, though Ari was not a huge fan.
Here is some background on vaucherin:
"The Vacherin identified as du Haut-Doubs is a very special cheese protected by French law. At the peak of perfection from November to March, by regulation it can be made only from the milk of two breeds of mountain cow during the winter months when their feed is natural hay. Indeed, the cheese originated in hard weather when farmers had to make their own small cheeses or lose the milk money – or so the story goes."
Et voila:
For dessert Eloise bought us cheesecake. It was such a sweet and unexpected surprise, as the French do not do cheesecake, though they adore it. We stayed, drank and chatted until 11--typical French dinner--and then ran to catch the sncf train to take us back to Paris. I had a wonderful time and was so touched that they put in so much effort to celebrate our holiday. Not to mention I have been dreaming about that chicken sauce ever since...
Friendsgiving:
Ari and I decided to host a little Thanksgiving get-together for forsaken American kids in Paris. We decided on the Sunday after Thanksgiving so we would have ample time to shop, cook, and I wouldn't have to study. However, we got behind schedule with too much chatting and guests arrived while I was still in my sweat pants. Also, we kind of forgot that we have a microwave-oven, meaning you can only put one thing in at a time. So when you have to make pumpkin bread, chicken, turkey, cornbread, and heat up everyone else's dishes that they brought, it becomes a bit of a catastrophe.
I was in charge of pumpkin bread, chicken, a cheese plate and a gorgonzola, pear and honey crostini. Ari did the cranberry sauce and turkey roast. We also had 2 pounds (not joking) of macaroni and cheese, baguettes, mashed potatoes, green beans, more green beans, cheesey corn, stuffing, gravy, salad, apple tartes, pumpkin pie, and a delicious pear tart. For 10 people. We were literally throwing away heaps of food because our half fridge could not anything else.
We were all Americans, minus one Irishman and one Canadian, and it was a nice, quiet dinner party. Everyone was just happy to be in the presence of stuffing, wine, and other Americans. We were a little stressed trying to figure out how to re-heat the food (tried to put the plastic plates in the microwave, which resulted in a melting issue. Pans did not fit in the oven, so we removed food from said pans and put them into smaller plates. Ari's turkey didn't make its appearance until an hour after we ate.) But we managed! I have not eaten that much in one sitting in months, so I was physically in pain for the rest of the night. But it was SO worth it. But I think thats going to be the last time I am not in America over Thanksgiving...there is just something about that holiday that I never want to go without.
Check out my bread and chicken!
Chicken recipe:
Whole chicken stuffed with salt, pepper, thyme and a whole lemon (halved)
covered in garlic, salt, pepper
cooked all together with carrots, onions, garlic, celery in a red wine, vinegar, olive oil sauce
And the hosts :)
Saturday, November 26, 2011
I'm back!
Ok so I have basically been a blog hermit for the past month due to copious amounts of GRE studying. I finally took it (on Thanksgiving...oh the irony) and now have a life. So here is a sparknoted version of my life the past month:
- WE MOVED OUT OF THE HELL HOLE. Ariana and I are officially the proud renters of 64 Avenue d'Italie (aka the secret garden). Our little maisonette (little house) is hidden behind a tiny brown door near Place d'Italie in the 13th arrondissement, 10 minutes away from where we used to live in the 5th. It is absolutely charming. We have our own garden, courtyard, kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms. It's our own little cottage and we could not be happier. Check it:
- Garden
Ariana's room
My room
Bathroom (the WC is upstairs)
Kitchen/dining room
Living room
- We went and saw the USA vs France football (soccer) match for 10 euros and were so close it was fantastic.
- Stella, Ari and I met up with my new Au Pair friend from my french class, Laurel, for the Festival Photo, which took place in Saint-Germain-Des-Pres. Over 50 photo galeries hosted free viewings of their works; many too modern and bizarre, but others strikingly poignant. So we walked around the area with a group for a few hours, weaving in and out of petit galeries. My favorite was an exhibit from a photo-journalist in Iran and Iraq. The venue was also spectacular:
- It is still fall in Paris and the city has yet to stun us with the FREEZING winter that we keep holding our breath for. I can still run in a long sleeve shirt and pants and not die. Talk about a pleasant surprise for late November
The history of Paris...in one hour
I had passed it countless times during my excursions in the third arrondissement and always marveled at the high stone walls and its essence of age and secrecy. I recently discovered that the enormous, hidden building was a museum. Musée Carnavalet's buildings date to 1578 and was purchased by the city of Paris in 1866. Its magnificent gardens, staircases and architecture make it one of the most fascinating destinations in the Marais district. Also, it has one of the two remaining orangeries (like a conservatory) in the Marais. I had no idea this place even existed.
We were in the mood for a cultural taste of Paris that Saturday and were attracted by the Musée's exhibitions, and its free entrance fee. Carnavalet hosts a grand selection of art, scale models of Paris' developments throughout the ages, the first gargoyles, and mementos that made the city famous. The gardens alone are worth the trip.
The sign galleries were the most fascinating part of Carnavalet; the collection housed signs spanning from the 16th-20th centuries. I learned that signs were a necessity for shopkeepers, as most of their customers were illiterate. The better and more beautiful the sign, the higher the customer flow. Thus ingenuious shopkeepers created unique signs, such as the chat noir.
This little gem was founded in 1881 as Cabaret sign and is one of Paris' most influential images. Located at the food of the Butte de Montmartre, the Chat Noir epitomized the bohemian lifestyle and is still found on every post card and calendar in Paris. It wasn't until now that I understood what it was.
Other metal signs, like griffons, huge scissors, Elms and forks covered the walls of the gallery and indulged the viewer in an eclectic array of Paris' visual history.
The staircases of the museum (primarily an awesome workout) is also one of the Musée's greatest architectural features. Wide and grand, the stone staircases were as breathtaking as some of the art pieces themselves.
However, I did find this dressing sectional quite unique and beautiful. And I am sure you are dying to see some of these ridiculously prodigal (GRE word, couldn't help it) rooms; don't worry, I'll indulge you.
After we had our fill of ornate rich people chambers we headed out into the sun, and the gardens. As I said, the museum is also famous for the beautiful gardens that lay in the center of the ancient stone buildings. Intricately designed and perfectly kept, the gardens provided the perfect respite after our march through the history of Paris.
We were in the mood for a cultural taste of Paris that Saturday and were attracted by the Musée's exhibitions, and its free entrance fee. Carnavalet hosts a grand selection of art, scale models of Paris' developments throughout the ages, the first gargoyles, and mementos that made the city famous. The gardens alone are worth the trip.
The sign galleries were the most fascinating part of Carnavalet; the collection housed signs spanning from the 16th-20th centuries. I learned that signs were a necessity for shopkeepers, as most of their customers were illiterate. The better and more beautiful the sign, the higher the customer flow. Thus ingenuious shopkeepers created unique signs, such as the chat noir.
Other metal signs, like griffons, huge scissors, Elms and forks covered the walls of the gallery and indulged the viewer in an eclectic array of Paris' visual history.
We mostly browsed the furniture and room galleries, as we had all been to Versailles and basically everything royal from that century looks alike. Been there, done that.
After we had our fill of ornate rich people chambers we headed out into the sun, and the gardens. As I said, the museum is also famous for the beautiful gardens that lay in the center of the ancient stone buildings. Intricately designed and perfectly kept, the gardens provided the perfect respite after our march through the history of Paris.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
It would have happened sooner or later...
...I gave in. I went to the American coffee shop in Paris. And no, it's not Starbucks, surprise, surprise. Sugarplum bakeshop is the real deal. A delectable and all-American coffee shop and bakery in the middle of Paris, tucked up a small street in the 5th arrondissement.
I desperately needed a change of study scene. So I parted with the usual Starbucks and crossed over to the left bank, GRE books in tow, in search of American sweets.
"Hello! Great to see you!" A cheerful voice called out the moment I walked in the door. I was taken aback and looked around. First of all, I was not used to being greeted in English, and secondly, I was not aware I knew anyone or anyone knew me. After a few seconds I realized it was one of the owners, a voracious redhead from Charleston who was sitting on the couch in a variegated bandana. I smiled and asked how she was and she responded, "Great! I am spending my whole day looking at home improvement and decoration catalogues."Sarcasm. An American sarcastic joke. I loved it. Not to mention that everything here is done in English (of course they speak french when necessary and have translations) as it is a bona-fide American coffee shop. Coldplay and Joshua Radin were playing in the background, the room was filled with eclectic coffee and dining room tables and chairs, and an array of goodies sat behind a glass counter.
Sugarplum specializes in homemade American classics, like cheesecake, brownies, chocolate chip cookies, cake, banana bread, blondies, etc. I died at the selection. As a chocolate chip cookie connoisseur I was tempted to buy one and be done with it, because they looked absolutely amazing. However, the baker said they were on the crispy side today (yes, because they had just come out of the oven), so I decided to go for something else.
I decided on the Masala Chai tea and a raspberry muffin. I am not usually a muffin fan, but these looked so home-made I had to give them a try. I also grabbed a pecan toffee bar to go for Ariana. (Totally stole a bite of that; the richness of the pecans sat perfectly with the slight layer of caramel toffee that lay beneath. Not to mention the buttery crust acted like an extra layer, making it more like a layer bar than a toffee.)
So I settled down to study, set out my books and gazed lovingly at my breakfast. An American muffin, in an American coffee shop, in Paris. It was a lovely taste of home that I was not aware I missed.
The Chai Masala was wonderful. My pot yielded three cups of spiced cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla flavors. It was one of the best chai brews I have tasted. After I dissected my muffin in my usual fashion (only eating the top) I realized that the interior was filled with chunky, sweet raspberry compote....so obviously I had to eat the whole thing
*Side note
I went back twice after this (once I split a scone with Ariana, the second I got the chocolate chip cookie. It was so amazing I had to save it and bring it home to eat on special occasions. Definitely a top chocolate chip cookie contender in my book. And yes, it is still in my fridge.)
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