Rebonjour!

Let's imagine for a moment that I have kept you up to date about my goings-on this summer and haven't fallen off the face of the earth for weeks and sometimes months at a time to indulge my inner terrible person. This would be a world in which you're in on the fact that I left Portland for my hometown of Washington at the end of August. A world in which I told you all about how I spent my only week at home of eating my way through a world of cuisine instead of, say, cleaning the gutters with my ma. Namaste, chic Indian restaurant as svelte as a Bollywood dancer, and holy moley, authentic Cuban black bean soup, and ay chihuahua, Argentinian gelato that is definitely not consumed by Argentinian models, and heeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyy Thai restaurant run by very gay Thai men who probably also run a massage place round the back for the right genre of customers. Oh, and I probably also would have mentioned the build-your-own-Bloody-Mary bar in Philadelphia. (There were pickled eggs!!!) Maybe we can blame the house-infused applewood-smoked-duck-bacon vodka shot(s...?) for the total absence of this lovely, imaginary world from these pages.

And then I absconded to Paris with a suitcase full of coffee beans and a pillbox of salt for a semester abroad.

Cool, now that we're all caught up, shall we begin?

This is Paris:

Wait, no, wrong one--this is Paris!

[from Yvon's Paris, a marvelous collection of photographs taken at the turn of the century by Pierre Yves-Petit]

And the view is almost that great from my house (although there are fewer gargoyles). I'm staying with a charming French family--I really can't say it any better than the introduction my study abroad program gave me: Both Madame and Monsieur are artists; they live in a beautiful 1930s townhouse with a garden. Monsieur is a sculptor, film editor, and director. Madame smokes a little, but only in the garden. They have two daughters, one of whom lives with them in Paris and is studying literature and theatre. It's a lovely house and a lovely area and they are lovely people and I am in love.

I arrived a week earlier than the official start date of my program, in order to better acclimate myself to a life of lounging by the Seine with a glass of wine dangling from my fingers. Once I'd hopped off the plane and onto French soil with success (if that's what you call wandering around Charles de Gaulle for two hours, dragging three suitcases, searching in vain for the little blue shuttle that would take me to the city), I had to prove to myself that I was really, really in Paris. So I walked all the way down to the Seine.

That's about, oh, three miles. No biggie.

I did my literary forebears proud, though, and begged for a job at Shakespeare and Company; I think I looked like a pretty convincing waif given that I'd been on a plane for seven hours. They weren't, hélas, hiring, but that's okay. I can always volunteer. And just ensure that a little tumbleweed happens to blow right off the prairie. It's precarious, you know, having a bookshop right next to the river. Who knows what could happen! Especially if there is wine involved. And in Paris, there is always wine involved.

Look at those booksellers! They are clearly up to no good, and they are right next to the bookstore. Who knows how many tumbleweeds they have tumbled into the Seine. [Yvon again]

Having satisfied my literary duties, I was finally able to take that leisurely stroll down the Seine that all those guidebooks are always promising. I think they knew I was coming, though, because look what was spread out just for me?

I took the métro home, and had my first real French meal with my new French family. We introduced ourselves over a dinner smoked fish and salad, tearing off pieces of fresh bread to sop up the vinaigrette pooling on our plates. The instant I put down my fork, Monsieur hopped up to the kitchen and swooped back into the dining room with a plate of cheese: a log of chêvre, a wedge of comté, and a curious little wooden box of fromage puant (stinky cheese). A scroll of Gothic letters declares it to be l'Ami de Chambertin--the friend of Chambertin. After cracking a joke about how Chambertin must not like hanging out with his friend all that much given his smell, I learned that Chambertin is actually a kind of wine, and also, that Chambertin has great taste in friends. My family now jokingly refers to me as l'amie de l'ami de Chambertin, but I fear that in the intervening days I have left my friend for Monsieur Roquefort. Parce qu'il est plus fort. Mais oui!

After that course, Monsieur pulled out the bowl of fruit, overflowing with grapes with skins so thin the insides seemed to glow, nectarines the color of the setting sun, and dozens of little green plums. Those Reines-Claude plums are like perfect jewels--so soft! so sweet! I swear, all fruit tastes better on this continent. No wonder the wine is so good.

And just when I thought I had died and gone to heaven, Monsieur whipped out the chocolate bar I'd brought them from Maryland and we finished the evening on the sweet notes of cacao, fleur de sel, and cacao nibs.

So, first week in France? This picture pretty much sums up my feelings so far: