I moved to France permanently when I was 19 years old, and after 18 years here, it’s unsurprising that I would be unscathed by my surroundings. I maintain an American accent, an American approach to drinking ungodly amounts of water, and an American indignation at the lack of public restrooms in malls and supermarkets (probably in some part linked to my aforementioned water consumption…), but in many other ways, I’ve gone local.
1. I’m awfully pedantic about grammar.
Let’s be honest: I’ve been annoying people about grammatical errors since long before I moved to France. But in the past few years, I’ve noticed that my pedantry has become a bit more, well, French.
Most learners of French have a story of a local supposedly feigning incomprehension in the face of what the French learner believed to be a relatively minor error: la toilette in place of les toilettes or une croissant instead of un croissant. But recently, I must shame-facedly admit, I’ve found myself doing the same – and I swear, it’s not an act. On multiple occasions, when a fellow foreigner has asked me a question but tripped up on the gender agreement of an adjective or article, I’ve found my brain stumbles to catch up. Rather than assume my interlocutor has made a mistake, the incongruity leads some sort of does not compute message to surface in my own mind. Before I know what I’m doing, I'm asking the poor soul to repeat the phrase they just confidently mangled, and then, before I can stop myself, I hear myself uttering that most soul-killing of remonstrances:
Oh! Les toilettes. Elles sont en bas.
I suppose it makes me a bit more American to say that I feel bad about it.
2. I’m shocked when people eat while walking.
When I was growing up, I was an avid Sesame Street fan. But while the above video feels an apt description of American eating habits – anywhere, any time – in France, days are structured around very structured meals, designed to be enjoyed at the appropriate time and in the appropriate place, i.e. sitting down at the table. In an interview for a story I penned for Saveur about street food in Paris, culinary journalist Domenico Biscardi shared that, for the French, sitting down to eat “is a kind of reflex.”
“It’s very surprising to see people eating on public transport, for example,” he told me as we sipped citron pressé in a 6th arrondissement café. “It attracts the attention.” Those forced to eat in public often “protect themselves,” he said, opting to sit in a corner and even apologizing when someone one walks past, “as though, in some way, there was some shame in it.”
I’ve eradicated snacking and eating on the go from my own routines. But perhaps the bigger change is how odd – even off-putting – I now find it to see someone chowing down at a weird time, and, worse, on the go.
3. I’m incapable of saying goodbye normally.
The French are quite wedded to their routines, and one that’s ingrained in early childhood is saying hello and goodbye. Whether a bise, a handshake, or an elbow bump, French old and young begin and conclude every social interaction with a one-on-one greeting and parting gesture. It takes some time to get used to, but once you do, it becomes something that’s hard to elide. For me, that holds doubly true with the latter.
I can get away with a sort of general, sweeping hello – it doesn't bother me quite that much. But when it comes time to leave, I find myself craving a better conclusion than “See ya!” Which means that when I’m taking my leave of someone I don't know well enough to hug, I’m horrified to report, I’ve found myself frequently resorting to some sort of odd salute before scurrying away.
Cheese of the Week
Young Buck is a Northern Irish raw milk blue cheese made by Mike's Fancy Cheese. Its creamy, crumbly texture is not dissimilar to that of Stilton, and its salty flavor is balanced by delicate tropical fruit aromas. For me, it showcases why the Brits remain some of the masters of blue cheese.
To discover more of my favorite cheeses, be sure to follow me on Instagram @emily_in_france, subscribe to my YouTube channel, and tune into the Terroir Podcast, where Caroline Conner and I delve into France's cheese, wine, and more one region at a time.
What I’m Eating
Le Petit Vendôme is a bistro dans son jus, an old-school spot truly walking the walk of French tradition. The tables are far too close together for comfort; you need to shout to be heard. And that’s half the fun. More on the blog.
Where I’m Going
1. To hear Jhumpa Lahiri speak at the American Library in Paris.
2. To hang out on the Canal Saint-Martin in the sunshine, seeing as (fool’s?) spring has sprung.
3. To feel very fancy at Le Grand Colbert, home to the chicken Diane Keaton ate in Something’s Gotta Give.
What I'm Writing
1. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. It’s a cliché for a reason, but unfortunately, in the realm of women’s healthcare, it still hasn’t quite sunk in – and osteoporosis specifically is a major cause for concern. For Organic Authority.
2. From the archives: Doubling as a delicious maths problem, France’s easy-to-make yoghurt cake recipe relies on volume measures facilitated by the ubiquitous 125g terracotta yoghurt pot. For the BBC.
3. From the archives: Salers is the French cheese that no one is talking about. For USA Today.
FAQs
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What I'm Reading
1. This book felt at times like multiple narratives in one, a coming-of-age in which the narrator comes of age, not once, but again and again and again. In a dance between Paris, Warsaw, and New York, this story explores the ties that bind an adolescent to her fractured expatriate family. My favorite parts were the Paris years; towards the end, the narrative seemed to meander without knowing exactly where it wanted to go. But I did enjoy the ending, which seemed perfectly suited to our precocious, insightful narrator Charlotte.
2. This story about how a potato cartel (yes, it’s a real thing) reveals a good deal of collusion in the food industry, notably with regards to sustained high pricing. In the Bittman Project.
3. This fun grammatical quid pro quo about when the should be italicized. In OUPBlog.
A bientôt !