An American in Paris

Le dimanche 3 juin

After some hesitation, I have decided to blog about my time in the City of Lights.  Why the hesitation, you ask?  I sometimes worry that the time spent composing blogs and my use of technology might detract from the authentic cultural experience of being present in the city about which I’m writing.  But heck, it’s Paris. I want to remember this forever.

I ended up on my way to Paris when I spotted an extremely inexpensive flight through a new discount airline called French Bee.  I found a ticket for, get this, under $500 round-trip direct on kayak.com.  It departed the day after I was out of school and I couldn’t say no.  

The flight was agreeable aside from the two-hour delay caused by the airport’s immigration holding more than 70 passengers. (I guess it’s just a sign of the political times; it’s a difficult time to be an immigrant in our country under our current presidential administration, as well as in other parts of the world.)  My row-mate and I were lucky; a passenger moved seats to be near his family so we had a middle seat to stretch out. I chose to watch The Florida Project  by Sean Baker en français - it’s one of my favorite films from this year and still beyond me why it didn’t receive more Golden Globe or Academy Award accolades. 

Upon arrival, everything whirred around me in the francophone language.  It’s nuts to me that I have spoken completely in French for the past three days.  When I finally arrived at the hotel and sat down to write in my journal, the words flowed out en français automatically and I was stunned after I turned page after page in my own handwriting.  It’s the immersion, I tell ya!

I was mighty hungry after my long flight and journey via RER and metro to Citadines, so I checked Yelp.fr for a restaurant within walking distance.  I adjusted my cellphone maps and began walking down one of the cobblestone streets that juts out of the Place d’Italie etoile, one of many stars that define the structure of the city.  I passed a liquor store (un tabac)  where the shop owner was shouting while pushing a man out of the door of his business.  A woman in all black smoked a cigarette at the cafe next door; she tsked and laughed under her breath at the sight.  I finally landed at Chez Mamane, a Mediterranean joint that seemed crowded as I approached.  Groups of people hung outside smoking in their skinny jeans and moto jackets. I assumed I would have to wait, as the restaurant was small inside, but when I asked the gentleman behind the bar for a table for one, he brought me to the back right by the kitchen.  

I ordered a couscous-merguez.  (From my studies of French and many years of teaching the food culture, I know that you actually pronounce the ‘z’ on the end of merguez and that it’s a spicy sausage often served on street corners).  I asked the server to please recommend a red wine; she pointed to a vin algérien, and so that was it.  I wrote in my journal, hoping to seem intellectually French and NOT like a pretentious food writer who was taking notes to later criticize the service. When she brought out the food, I was floored.  Here sat an enormous bowl of vegetable soup, an entire plate of couscous, and a plate of three long merguez sausages over a leaf of lettuce.  The meal was fiit for two; soon-to-be-eaten by one.

It was so satisfying, comforting, and delicious.  The waitress recommended that I eat slowly. And so I did.  Bite, sip, write in journal. Slurp, poor water from the carafe into my verre, cut the  sausage and watch the juices leak out, look around, and add a note to journal.  It was THE perfect first night in Paris solo.  On my way home, I stopped by the same magasin de tabac where the man was shouting earlier. This time I found the store owner behind his counter, friendly and helpful when I asked him for one of those appareils that a person uses to open a bottle of wine. 

A demain, tout le monde!

Alana