I’m counting down to my third trip to Paris since I left a little over a year ago. (I know, I know, old habits die hard).  And this time, all I can think about is carrots râpéess.

Specifically, the cheap ones you buy at G7 in plastic containers they keep near the cheese section.  Call me crazy, but that’s what I’m craving most.  (Actually, call me easy-to-please and economical.  Last time I went to Paris I spent a small fortune because I was out of Marriage Frere, Dyptique and the Lucite bangles I buy at a tiny boutique in the outer Marais).

Upon my return to the US, I’m moving closer to organic farmers’ markets, specialty cheese shops, bakeries, and my new flat has a really good kitchen.  Even though I’m coming back to the US, I’m moving closer to a European style of living.

I’m not going to bash American cuisine, because I *love* $1 slices of pizza, burgers, chips and guacamole, and cupcakes the size of my head.  I do not, however, love the extra 30lbs that inevitably goes along with steady consumption of these items.  But I do love the yoga and ocean swimming that is burning the excess fat away.

So I’m calling it even and walking away from the cage fight of Me vs. American Comfort Food, never to engage again.

Instead, I’m going back to a European way of eating, albeit with slight modifications to breakfast.

Breakfast in Paris means an espresso and a cigarette.  Even if you don’t smoke, you take your AM clope via second hand smoke at your local café or tabac and you like it.  (I did).  But as I’ve eased on to morning yoga, I’ve eased off the morning caffeine.  A single noisette sloshing in an empty stomach does not feel right during a prayer twist.  Breakfast is clearly a job for Greek yogurt, as I’m sure you all can agree.

I firmly believe that in all civilized countries, it should be mandated that lunch is the biggest meal of the day. Half sandwiches shouldn’t even be legally sold between the hours of noon and two pm. And just after consuming the biggest meal (which is gleefully carbohydrate heavy, as it should be) one takes a “petit café.”  This tradition of savoring a strong, tiny cup of perfectly smooth and bitter espresso with just a noisette of whole milk, after a big meal, it’s like the final pen stroke that closes a gestalt circle, it’s the final missing note from Tristan & Isolde, in short, is the ultimate resolution.  And it is good.

I’m going to get a Pixie Nespresso machines in both my office and abode so that I never go without this primal pleasure.  I love those Nespresso machines and the George Clooney commercials that don’t show in the US, with the fiery passion of a million burning suns. A key quality to a good cup of coffee is consistency, and on this front, Nespresso always delivers.

I was recently on a 10-week, self-imposed sabbatical where I had no access to fast food. It really took removing the option of buying fast food and being forced to cook every single meal to make me become mindful of eating again. As a result, I learned to re-frame eating and realize how important thoughtful meal-planning is.

Since one has to eat at least 3 times a day…why not make each meal a meditative pleasure? And a thoughtful meal (even if you err on the side of cupcakes or other baked goods, as I often do) is an act of self-love. Feeding yourself (fast) food that you wouldn’t even let kids eat more than once a month…it doesn’t make sense.

I’m not going to wax poetic about France and food, there’s been enough said on that subject. They are the masters, and I bow to them.  And I will emulate their ways going forward in order to feel joy when planning my meals, shopping and selecting my food, when cooking, and especially while eating.

Bon ap.

A Paris-Brest a day keeps the skinny away.

Hate those self-referential, Paris know-it-all types.  Oh wait….

(note: shamelessly stolen from Reddit)

Suzy Parker at Trocadero.  Please note that the only actual people who dress like this are me & Suzy (both American). There are many elegant French women, but very few who wear red lipstick and have perfectly coiffed hair. The Romantic idea of Timeless French Elegance is actually an American invention.

8 Reasons why NYC is superior to Paris

1.      Netflix

2.      Frozen yogurt

3.      Oldies played in supermarkets and drugstores

4.      Laundry and dry cleaning picked up and delivered to your home or office

5.      Seamless.com

6.      Air conditioned subway cars

7.      The Chrysler building day or night

8.      Speakeasies and tiki bars with extensive classic cocktail menus

8 Reasons why Paris is superior to NYC

1.      A butcher, baker, fishmonger and fresh vegetables never more than 2 blocks away

2.      Doctors that make house calls

3.     35€ for a bottle of good champagne 

4.      Socialized medicine

5.      Easy-to-understand maps and signage in the half-price subways that run less frequently, but more reliably in a greater concentrated geographical area.

6.      “La Machine” the debit/credit card machine that is brought to your table at restaurants.

7.      Pont Alexander III

8.      The champagne bar at Galleries Lafayette

You find them in all arbitrarily-imposed hierarchical organizations (sororities, country clubs, Junior League): people who just love France.

They’ll wax poetic about the language, the culture, art, architecture. The French have better manners, better education and better priorities.

You know what?  No they don’t.

I was one of those annoying Francophiles that took my Gallic love to the nth degree. I learned to speak French, I taught a university-level class in French history, I visited 11 times before I moved there for 13 years.

And while I hate to speak in sweeping generalities, let me assure you there is nothing particularly admirable about France as a nation, or the French as a populace.  (At least not 20^th century France. Paris during the Age of Reason is a different story).

Bearing in mind that it’s tit for tat, that there is no nation superior to another, and I do not intend to bash a country/culture that furnished me with the most formative years of my life…. I do, however, feel quite strongly that the people who think that France is a superior nation that deserve a smack up against the head.

First let’s a get a few common misconceptions straight.

FALSE: The French have better manners.

TRUTH:  The French have better table manners. Luckily there is no Olympic category for ambidextrous knife/fork wielding.  The French would never lose. An old boyfriend once told me that I had “passed” and was now officially Parisian because I correctly ate a peach during a dinner party. (Armed with a dessert fork and knife, I skinned and ate the freshly-picked peach without breaking eye contact with my host who had engaged me in conversation, probably as a way to test my social class and breeding).

In terms of daily social decorum, Parisians have an aggressive streak that makes the ever-cheery and accommodating American run for cover. The correct response to an indignant verbal slight (whether real or perceived) is an increased hostile reply laced with tacit superiority. This goes on until someone starts swearing, throws something or storms out. And this sort of social interaction happens several times on a daily basis, among strangers, acquaintances, family, friends, and always when ordering something at the boulangerie. (Look up the French word for uncouth in a dictionary and you will find a picture of a boulangere).

Here’s the French President Nicolas Sarkozy, getting jostled at an annoying photo op (the agriculture tradeshow).  He’s surrounded by handlers and secret service, but the public can get close enough and one man tries to get the President’s attention by touching his arm.  (link opens in a new window)

With a pleasant smile Sarkozy says “Don’t touch me. You’re soiling me. Fuck off you sad loser.”

Something tells me Obama has better manners. I think even Bush has better manners. I’d wager Nixon on the day of his resignation held it together better, at least in public.

When in Paris, it’s perfectly normal to push your way to the front of a line with indignant self-importance. You can bash into people on the street and yell at them even though it was your fault (paradoxically, you must hold the door open for the person behind you when entering a department store or on the Metro). All tourists are spoken to and about atrociously because they think you can’t understand them (and they’re right, you can’t). Taxi drivers rip everyone off with the regularity of dawn/dusk.  There is no regard for personal space.

France is a country that takes individualism to an extreme that is incomprehensible to Americans. We read it as rudeness rooted in snobbery, but it’s simply their enculturation. There is no such thing as team spirit or greater good.  (There are centuries of historical justification for this, but that will be another entry). They are completely devoid of social empathy, err toward rude whenever possible and it’s in their culture, no different than the Japanese distaste for milk.

FALSE:  French are better educated.

TRUTH: Not anymore. Charlemagne (the King who invented the comma, period, question mark and an easy-to-read/write font) mandated literacy in the Middle Ages. Under Napoléon primary, secondary & high schools were established as well as the concept of a set national curriculum. Currently, students go to school five-and-a-half days a week, from nine to five.

But as schools are underfunded, teachers are poorly paid, and student apathy is at an all-time high,  France is not cranking out any super students or future philosophers . Look to the East for that.

FALSE: The Un-official French National Phrase is « La Vie Est Belle »,  « C’est Si Bon »,  or « C’est Magnifique ».

TRUTH :  The real un-official French National Phrase is « Ce n’est pas mon  problème » (Not my problem!) « Ben, non Madame/Monsieur », (No way, lady/man. And this is usually proclaimed before you make your request), or « Je m’en fous » (I could give a fuck).  Life is not a Line Renaud record, old chum.

FALSE:  French is the most beautiful language in the world.

TRUTH:  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but note that the correct pronunciation of “Rochechouart” sounds exactly like a dog vomiting up a half-chewed biscuit.  Also, there are so many different accents from regional to social, the only people with correct pronunciation, no slang and unwaveringly perfect grammar are news anchors.

FALSE: Paris is the most beautiful city in the world.

TRUE:  Actually, that one is true. There are good arguments to be made for Florence or the inland villages near the Côte d’Azur, but you will not find a city more aesthetically pleasing, from the muted slate and ecru palate of most buildings and streets, to the hodgepodge of genius architectural styles, to the incredibly complex urban planning.

If only Parisians knew how good they had it, living every day in three dimensional masterpiece, they might be a little less aggressive. And perhaps slightly admirable?

Two make a long story short, France & the US are the only two countries which share elements from a document that forms the backbone for social order, government, and citizen rights among others civil & legislative cornerstones.

Our revolutions happened back to back, the US founding fathers and the French architects of the revolution were quite chummy (most of our first few presidents spent much time at Versailles in Louis XVI’s court).

The Declaration of Independence, our Dear John letter to King George III, was approved by congress on July 4, 1776. The American Revolution went from 1775-1783, and the French Revolution lasted quite a bit longer 1789-1799.  (And then they had a few more after that).

Thomas Paine, an American whose day job was a corsetiere (yay, love corsets), wrote the Rights of Man in 1791 while living in Paris during the revolution. He used the Declaration of Independence and his other wildly-popular pamphlet “Common Sense” as a starting point and elaborated upon what this new government would literally mean to the citizens.

No one was really interested in the way process for which a territory could apply for and be granted statehood (although technically, those details were spelled out in the constitution). People wanted to know what a government without a king specifically meant to their quotidian life.

It’s the constitution that gives us the right to free speech (which France does not have), the right to bear arms (which France does not have, unless said arms are used solely for the purpose of hunting wild boar), and separation of church and state (which France supposedly has, but doesn’t really enforce to the extent the US does).

The Declaration of the Rights of Man called for the Napoleonic Code (innocent until proven guilty) already in play in the newly formed US Judicial system, sort of as a snub to the Brits to this day consider citizens guilty until proven innocent.  The Napoleonic code also calls for the right to a speedy trial of your peers.  The term “speedy” means “at least 3-5 years” in France, but they do take the concept of peers more seriously.  Your Princess Leia outfit will disqualify you for jury duty in France, but not NYC.

But most important, these new fledgling countries, straight out of revolution and anarchy, separated by an ocean and a language felt passionate to guarantee their citizens three unalienable rights.

In English:  “Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

In French: “liberté, égalité, fraternité”

And we hold these truths to be self-evident.

(In Paris, the writing is literally on the wall.  The Concord Metro stop is completely tiled in the Rights of Man in a difficult-to-read, but visually striking mosaic).

*    *   *

As a foreigner in a foreign land, one constantly strives to find commonalities when meeting new people.  The quickest way to forge a bond is to find mutual interests, mutual tastes, and mutual moral proclivities.

Aside from the Rights of Man (which is rarely interesting cocktail party fodder), our two nations couldn’t be more different. We love technology, we enjoy conversation, we pride ourselves on education and dressing well.  But there my friends, the similarities end.

Here are a few generally-accepted American aphorisms and the French reaction:

“Money can’t buy you happiness”

No American believes this to be 100% true.  Money buys you freedom and flexibility. It buys you the opportunity to impress business associates and influence friends. It buys you start-up capital to make even more money. Certainly, a box of money is not going to elicit the same joy as a train set did when you were 6 years old.  But money can do a lot of things…otherwise we Americans wouldn’t be so hell-bent on working for and wanting more.

The French perspective:  Money is a poisoned gift.  No one can know you have, it has to be hidden from the government, your family, your spouse, and it should never be flaunted in the form of an expensive car or head-to-toe designer clothes.  Even middle-class displays of wealth are shameful. This comes from two ideas:  the aristocracy gained their money through unfair advantage, ergo, if you have money, you must have acquired it in a shameful way, too. People earning more than 200,000€ are taxed at the 51% tax rate.  Giving over half your paycheck to the government always hurts.  There is no happiness there, only angst.

“Happiness is A Job Well Done”

Americans inherently take pride in their work (except of course for people who work at DMV & Duane Reade). Team effort is even higher accomplishment.  There is no shame in menial labor if it is done with diligence, integrity and determination.  The Horatio Alger story:  A street waif who through hard work, honesty and courage rises out of poverty and into the respectable and secure middle class.  It’s the American Dream. Work hard and you can be president. We still buy into it and work toward this dream in ways great and small every day.

Say this phrase to a French person and your proclamation will be returned with a blank stare.  This is a country what works to live, whereas Americans live to work. Their unofficial motto is “it’s not my problem” and they even have a correct spelling for that sound you make when you push air out of your semi-closed lips to indicate indifference (“pffff”).  France has 13 national holidays and 4 of them fall in May. Every single worker from and espresso slinger to a secretary gets 4 weeks of paid vacation and 2 weeks of sick pay.  Most executives get 6-8 weeks of vacation.

Work weeks are 35-hours long, without overtime, because no one would ever work overtime. (Except in the fashion industry, where workers are remunerated in prestige).

Not only does France not care about a job well done, they don’t care about their jobs. 

There is one kind of job called a “functionaire” which is a comparable to a low-level civil servant. They cannot be fired. Ever.  In other business sectors, when a new employee starts a job, there is a 90-day window where one can be terminated (but only with good cause, like stealing).  Incompetence doesn’t count as “good cause.“  After the 3-month trial period, it’s virtually impossible to be fired.  And even if you were, you would still receive up to 80% of your salary for 6 months as unemployment benefits.

The French take that “liberté, égalité, fraternité” to heart more than we do.  Nothing gets in the way of their pursuit of happiness…certainly not work.

And before you make a judgment, let me tell you first hand it’s a wonderful way to live.

You never realize how American-to-the-core you are until you are living abroad and your stars & stripes come gallantly streaming to the surface in the most surprising ways.

Growing up in the US, peers ask each other “what” they are. And the correct answer is always your grandparents’ birthplace. In my case: Russia. Western Russia, right outside of St. Petersburg where there is still a valley that bears my family name.  I’m Russian even though I’ve never been there and the few words of Russian I know were not lovingly passed down from my grandparents, but rather gleaned during the Reagan administration.  Still that tenuous connection is enough for every American, because we’re all secretly and perversely proud to be something else that is not American.

When I moved to France 13 years ago, I was nothing but American to each and every person I met. The French can’t even distinguish East Coast from West Coast, so everyone who was born and lived in America is American. Geographic affiliations and grandparents be damned.

Being American, I was also responsible for the deterioration of the ozone layer, nefarious secret capitalist agendas and trite pop-culture imperialism.  I did however get to take credit for rock and roll.

When Bush was elected, I faked Canadian for 8 years.  (It totally worked. No one knows where Manitoba is).

From the start I avoided American communities and really strove for full integration.  I was an American with Russian heritage who wanted to be French.  And so it was surprising that by the end of my time abroad, after 13 years living and working as a regular ol’ Parisian, fully fluent and fully integrated into not just daily life, but also into high society and even a certain level of national celebrity, I was surprised when the long-suppressed American in me popped out.

It was usually about baseball.

You never realize how much baseball lingo one uses until you’re faced with a nation that’s never seen a baseball game.

There is no French equivalent to “getting to third base.”  The very notion of ranking sexual acts in graduated steps and then codifying them in sports language is bizarre and ridiculous.

I was trying to break up with a boyfriend by telling him, “No way, no more chances! You’ve had three strikes, you’re out!”

He was baffled.  Because I had to explain what a “strike” was.  And why only three? Why not four? (Really, why not four?) Or two? And how many were there in cricket?  Couldn’t we use cricket rules because he was pretty sure they had at least 5 strikes?

When I refused to play cricket and wanted him to pack up his stuff and get out of my apartment, he accused me of being competitive.

Actually, I was demonstrating good sportsmanship, but if he couldn’t understand basic baseball rules, he was not going to get a concept as complex as sportsmanship since it implied a certain level of respect and morality, two qualities of which he was devoid.

You can’t tell your friends you’re getting up for a “seventh inning stretch” (innings don’t exist in France, although they do have four quarters in soccer games. There is a half time, but no stretching is required).

You can’t worry that you’re going to get stuck in the outfield on this new team project, because explaining that more balls go to the shortstop, the most desirable position, would take days, many hand gesticulations and perhaps a diagram.

And you can’t even “bring it home,” because really, that “home” refers to home base. And bases are only a military term.

What frustrated me about the situation was not the lack of understanding, it was the complete indifference to really clever and evocative idioms and blatant disregard to my country’s favorite national past time.

I made great efforts to become well versed in French idiom and slang.  I was fou furieuse (crazy mad) when le type (some dude) I had niqué (fucked) the weekend before m’a posé un lapin (stood me up or literally, posed a rabbit) and it took me forever to find a un taco (taxi) to get back home.

And if I could correctly use “pose un lapin” with comfort and certainty —because each use was a huge leap of faith…what the hell did rabbits have to do with getting stood up?!— Then why couldn’t they understand “three strikes you’re out?”

It’s because French people are stubborn and arrogant.  You heard it here first.

French idioms I like:

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