My wonderful mother is visiting me next week (her plane will land Saturday afternoon!) and she has offered (err, agreed under duress) to bring me things from the New World.
I’ve already asked for half of my wardrobe: the half I left behind. I’m just going to swap the “new” things in and send her back with the clothes I’ve been wearing day in and day out for the past few months.
Some other things I’ve requested:
Burt’s Bees chapstick (can’t find here)
Neutrogena sensitive skin face lotion (cosmetics and toiletries are SO expensive)
good body lotion (the cheap French stuff smells like bathroom cleaner)
more ibuprofen (I go through the stuff like candy)
Cheez-its!
peanut butter
Starburst
Luna Bars
assorted instant oatmeal flavors
If only she could bring me a pack of bacon and some take-out Chinese…
Have I forgotten any essential item only America can supply?! What would you ask for?
I remember the night I first saw you: it was at a party in my friend Emily’s apartment. I was in the kitchen wrestling with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, and suddenly there you were, staring jauntily back at me. Mocking me. I, of course, pretended I didn’t notice. We were formally introduced later in the evening, when most of the party-goers began migrating to the bars, and everyone else migrated to the kitchen in search of munchies. We didn’t spend much time together that night; just a taste of what was to come, really.
After that, we kept running into each other. It was like fate wanted us to be together. Wandering through Old Nice, I stopped to pick up a crêpe, and suddenly there you were, at my elbow! We made our way down to the beach together: you, me, and the crêpe. That didn’t last long, though. You were gone again in less than 10 minutes.
The funny thing is, all of my friends suddenly seemed to know you, too! I’d go over to their apartments and there you’d be, just hanging out. You do have a way with the women. And sometimes the men. I would have been jealous, but I always found you so sweet, especially when we were alone together…
So I decided to bring you home for myself. I can’t even explain how much I loved waking up to a good café crème, a slice of toasted baguette, and, of course, you.
That was when I really started to feel I knew you. And it started to get serious.
We started seeing each other every day, and spending more and more time together: morning, noon, and night. Dinners were lackluster unless you made an appearance. I missed you at work. I’d go looking for you at night, craving your smooth touch, your sweetness on my lips…
I started to lose interest in other things. Exercising, exploring Nice, hanging out with my friends, going out at night, fruit and vegetables. My idea of a perfect Friday night was curling up with you and watching a marathon of Law and Order: SVU. All I wanted was you, you, you. It was enough to make me want to vomit.
But you’re getting to be a little too much for me. Sometimes, if we spend too much time together, I actually start to feel physically ill! You’re just not giving me everything I need. I need variety and excitement! And, nutritionally, you definitely fall short.
I think we should take a break. I’m not saying it will be easy, especially since I know I’ll be running into you all over town (the grocery store is the worst!). Of course we can still be friends. We’ll see each other at parties! But we should leave it at that. Nutella, you’re just no good for me.
I can’t wait to get back to my one, true American love: peanut butter.
I googled "sexy nutella" and this is what they gave me...
Americans (or maybe anglophones in general) really like their Eves: Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve. That concept doesn’t really exist over here. Europeans don’t celebrate New Year’s Eve. They celebrate the New Year. The party doesn’t end when the clock strikes midnight; that’s just when it begins.
Somewhere between 9 and 10 o’clock Saturday night, Jacqueline, Stephen, and I started making our “New Year’s Eve” preparations. We picked up drinks and grapes at a market near the hostel, and grabbed dinner at a cheap (borderline dive) tapas place that ended up having the largest serving sizes we found in Barcelona.
We made our way down to Plaça de Catalunya after 11, with a new Japanese friend from the hostel in tow. A few blocks away we were accosted by a couple of Americans who wanted to know where we bought our grapes. They ended up buying an extra bag off of our new Japanese friend. As we near the Place, dozens of men meandered around the crowd with bottles of bubbly or 6 packs of beer, trying to sell booze to the flocks of tourists. In comparison with the hordes of Europeans grasping entire bottles of wine, we three tourists were downright tame, with our discreet bottles of Coke or Tonic water laced with Smirnoff (although the lemon might have given me away…).
Hanging with our new friend in Plaça de Catalunya. Borrowed from Stephen Traversie.
It’s a Spanish tradition to polish off 12 grapes on the 12 strikes of midnight for good luck. Unfortunately, somehow Stephen, Jacqueline, and I got it into our heads that it’s the 12 seconds before midnight. Now that, that we accomplished, even though I almost gagged and choked on the overly sweet grapes and, of course, the seeds. So do we get some good luck for a good effort?
At midnight people went nuts, popping bottles of champagne and spraying the crowd. There wasn’t a real fireworks display, but some crazy dudes ran through the street with some glorified sparklers, and set off a handful of underwhelming, do-it-yourselfers. But I actually liked that the focus wasn’t on some big fireworks display, it was on being with the people around you. We stayed in the streets for hours, celebrating more with our neighbors, a group of twenty-something Frenchies, incidentally. Yes, even in Barcelona I find ways to do things in French…
Stephen took a video of the countdown and some of the ensuing madness. If you listen closely, you can hear me say “oh my god”. That was after I choked down the grapes and felt kinda ill. Then, when Stephen says we did it, I get really really excited: I’m the squeaky, unbearably annoying girl shrieking in the background. Try to ignore me:
More highlights from the night:
– Not one, but TWO French people asking me if I’m pregnant. No, not because I look it (although this has made me even more aware and embarrassed about my Nutella love handles). It was because I was drinking out of a water bottle. I ended up asking several of them to try it just to prove it “wasn’t just water”.
– Learning a French drinking game. A sing-a-long drinking game. A gaping hole in my Francophone experience has now been filled.
– Bonding with the bum outside of our hostel who tried to sell us “Coke, hash, weed, beer, marijuana”. Stephen even snapped a photo of us posing together.
– Going back to the hostel and trying to play King’s Cup with a bunch of non-anglophones. I had no idea that game was so complicated, but it was worth a few laughs. One guy suggested, for a round of Categories, “The best thing you ever did with your ex”. All we wanted was to list cereal brands…
It started with the Christmas markets, and cups of steaming vin chaud (mulled wine). Pain d’épices (akin to ginger bread) in all shapes and forms. Champagne and oysters. Burgers and beer.
Sometimes all you want for Christmas is a taste of home.
Two days ago I took the train from Nice to Perpignan (a French town near the Spanish border) to stay with my friend Jacqueline for Christmas. We feasted on chicken fajitas (oh-so-American) and homemade eggnog. We stopped by the Perpignan fruit and veggie market for fresh vegetables and inspiration, and picked up a gorgeous pork loin roast at the butcher’s. We spent the rest of the day planning our Christmas menu and grocery shopping some more, and preparing our roast vegetables for a potluck Christmas eve dinner.
Another American assistant hosted our international Christmas dinner: there was an Chilean and an Argentinean, two Russians, and four Americans. In true French style, dinner started at 8, and we only wrapped in up around 11:30 because we had to leave for midnight mass. There were roughly 7 courses, beginning with a Russian salad called Salad Olivier and salmon and butter on bread, and ending with vin chaud and a homemade Buche de noel (traditional French Christmas cake). There was foie gras, and bruschetta, and good, old-fashioned mashed potatoes.
The slices that look like cheese? Slices of butter. Makes the salmon go down real nice.
Christmas dinner take two (roast pork loin and vegetables, asparagus, salad, and apple pie) is already in the works.
Christmas breakfast (gingerbread cookie and coffee with eggnog)
Doing It in French 