First French Christmas

Being unable to re-enter the French territory if I left it due to visa complications, I celebrated Christmas this year in France, with the Frenchboyfriend and his family; my very first French Noël.


Christmas in Paris.
French Christmas is all about family and food, a lot of food, with a little bit of Père Noël thrown in.

The celebrations started on Christmas Eve, with a family dinner lasting from 7pm till 2:30am, with about an hour of that dedicated to opening gifts. The rest? Drinking delicious champagne and wine, and eating several courses, from appetizers to a cheese course, and of course way too many desserts to count.

I learned that in the South it is traditional to have 13 desserts. We didn’t have quite thirteen, but we did have homemade chocolate covered clementines, marzipan fruits, bugnes, gingerbread cake, and bûche de noël, to name a few.


Christmas decorations in a small skiing village next to Frenchboyfriend's hometown.
In between the cheese coarse and the dessert coarse, who to my wandering eyes should appear but none other than the not-very-elusive Père Noël!

France’s equivalent to Santa Claus actually shows up while the children are awake to bring them gifts. While there weren’t any children present, Frenchboyfriend’s grandpa still dressed up as Père Noël and added a bit of Christmas magic to the evening.

French children also don’t need to hang their stockings by the chimney with care, as the French get their gifts directly from the big guy and don’t have stockings at all.

This probably explains why Frenchboyfriend’s family kept referring to all the gifts under the tree as being from Père Noël. There didn’t seem to be the same distinction between family gifts vs. Santa gifts that I have in my family.

Christmas day we underwent the eating endeavor again, only this time with the dad’s side of the family.

But meals didn’t stop there! We continued to have lovely dinners with various other members of the family and good family friends for the next several days. And then what else do you do for New Year’s Eve but eat a big meal?

Public Displays of Affection

Compared to America, the French are very pro-PDA. Nobody thinks twice if a couple is canoodling on the metro, or exchanges a quick kiss on the lips for a greeting.

I am a supporter of PDA. I like to partake in cuddling and even small kisses in front of friends or strangers on the street.

That said, I was forced to observe a little bit too much PDA the other day on the metro. This was one of those metro rides where the car is packed and you are sort of stuck looking in a certain direction.

I had a couple right in front of me, and it started out all right. They were holding hands, putting their arms around each other, all in all pretty tame.

Until, with horror, I saw this young man lean forward towards his girlfriend’s face, mouth open, going for a kiss, tongue first.

Then both tongues were out, touching, right in front of my face.

And I thought to myself, “man, the French are a little too okay with PDA.”

Liebster Award

A while ago I was nominated for a Liebster Award by one of my new blogger friends, Dana from As Told By Dana. I've been a bit lazy and the questions she asked were a bit personal so it's taken me a while to get around to it. Nevertheless, I present to you, the Liebster Award!


1. Why did you start blogging?

I started blogging because I wanted to remember every moment where I felt “French.” When French people mistook me for one of them, or I partook in a part of their culture, I wanted to share it. I quickly caught on to the fact that I’ll never be completely French, and now my blog talks more about how weird the French can be (and why I love it).

2. If you could go anywhere in the world, right now, where would you go, and why?

Southern California to spend time with my family and my pets, with a trip to where ever my brother currently is as well. I love to travel and go on adventures, but I have a lot more opportunities to do that than I do to go home and spend quality time with my family. Plus, I could use some good Mexican food.

3. If you had the chance to travel back in time or into the future, which would you pick, and what would you want to see/find out?

I would like to time travel to the future, as Benjamin Franklin said, “The rapid progress true science now makes occasions my regretting sometimes that I was born so soon.” I would love to see the progress humanity has made, not only technologically but also socially.

4. Apple or PC?

Apple. I have a macbook and an iphone.

5. How did we meet?

Through blogland!

6. What is your guilty pleasure?

Right now, it’s Les Ch’tis à Hollywood! I love me some bad French télérealité.

7. At my funeral, I want this song played:

I have thought very little about my funeral. I love Fiona Apple and her album The Idler Wheel is my favorite music so maybe that?

8. What do you think of when you hear, “Wisconsin?”

I think of my cousins. My dad’s sister and her family live in Wisconsin, but it might as well be another country. There are definitely cultural differences between us Californians and them Wisconsinites.

9. What is your favorite season and why?

I think that depends on which country I’m living in! In California, that would definitely be summer. I love spending my days at the beach and nights around a bonfire. In France, it is way too hot and humid in the summer for it to be my favorite. Winter is definitely too cold. I think it rains too much in the Fall, which leaves me with Spring. Spring is probably my favorite season in France because it’s starting to get warm again but it’s not yet humid. Although after writing this I’m coming to realize I might not be all that into this whole season thing, seeing as in Southern California we go from extremely nice weather to a little bit less nice weather during “winter.”

10. I never, ever, want to do this again:

Ride a vomit smelling bus.

11. What do you like most about yourself?

My enthusiasm and excitement about life. I’m a huge geek, love to reread Harry Potter (and read in general), dress up at theme parties, and play games. Sometimes France tries to stifle this part of me, but I really wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it means being a little bit too loud sometimes.


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And so I pass this award as well as the questions Dana posed onto some of my much deserving blogger friends:

Bread is Pain

Kaley... y mas

My Blondering Life

C'est Trash

Most of the time, when people (myself included) talk about things they love about France they bring up baguettes, cheese, wine, the language, the architecture… stuff that is pretty classy.

But that’s not all there is to France. She's got another side, a trashier side, and, well, I love it too!

Here are four trashier aspects of French culture that I can't get enough of:

1. “Les Ch’tis à ___________”
One of my favorite French TV shows is a reality TV series that follows a group of young people from the North as they travel to new places. So far, they’ve made it to Ibiza, Mykonos, and Las Vegas to name a few. It’s basically like a French version of the Real World. There is roommate drama, hook-ups, and they are supposed to be finding jobs. It’s pretty low class TV, but I can’t wait for the next season. End of August!


Les Ch'tis à Las Vegas.
2. La Vache Qui Tache
While drinking games exist everywhere, it isn’t exactly a classy activity. In France, it gets even less classy beause they play a drinking game where you are literally marked up with soot as you loose.

La vache qui tache is a drinking game using a tongue twister, and if you mess it up, you earn a "tache” (or stain, which is also the same word for spot, as in a spotted cow, hence the fun playonwords).

Voilà the phrase:


“Je suis la vache qui tache numero ______ avec _____ tache(s), et j’appelle la vache qui tache avec ______ tache(s) numero ________.“
(I am the cow number ____ with ____ stains, and I pick the "spotted/stained" cow with ______stains number________.)
It doesn't really translate all that well.
Good luck saying that after a couple of beers (and numerous facial markings).

3. BB Brunes
People often ask me if I like French music, and in truth I feel like I can’t answer that question because French music encompasses almost all music genres. While I do enjoy listening to Edith Piaf and feeling classy, since moving here I've realized she's not all France has to offer. I have discovered some French pop bands, including my new favorite: BB Brunes. They are popular amoung 12 year olds, and are similar to those good ol’ American boy bands (except they actually do play instruments). I love the cheesy pop music and love songs.


BB Brunes. So dreamy!
My favorite song by them right now is called Afecionado, if you want to give 'em a try.
4. L’amour est dans le pré
Another reality TV show, this time showing various farmers all over France looking for true love. They do so by being interviewed, then people mail them letters, then they select from the letters people to do speed dating with, then from those people they choose two to visit them. The farmers themselves tend to be pretty interesting characters. They are from way out in the country, which leads to some impossible accents.

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France turns out to be a pretty well rounded gal. There's a lot more going for her than just being hoity-toity. While I certainly love the classier aspects of France, like drinking champagne while listening to Edith Piaf and eating macarons, I also love that I can get an order of fries and watch crappy reality TV and still be experiencing French culture.

Vive la France!

Looking Back: The First Year of My Masters

The first day of school, where we were made to act silly and then sit through orientation presentations all day long, feels like ages ago. The buildings were unfamiliar, and despite being oriented all day long I left feeling like I didn’t know how to do anything any better than I did when I woke up that morning.

A week after taking spring semester finals, I returned to campus in order to drop off my registration packet for next year. The school seemed so small. I knew all its nooks and crannies. And while I had to figure out much of it all on my own (or with help from my fellow students), I now knew how to print documents, use the wifi, and recharge my student card.


La fac (school).
Source: l'aubeserveur
School in France wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be. I was disappointed, pleasantly surprised, mega stressed, had a lot of fun with good people, and learned some stuff. Overall a good year.

I think a major factor in my disappointment stems from the differences between high context and low context cultures.

Low context cultures are cultures where communication is in explicit codes like words, and rules and expectations are explicitly explained such as in America and New Zealand.

High context cultures are when communication is in physical gestures instead of words, and relies heavily on context such as in Japan and Saudi Arabia (thanks intercultural communication class!).

France is somewhat in between high and low. While they do use words, they leave enough unsaid to where I felt under-communicated with by my professors. My first shock came when nobody handed out a syllabus, and that sort of indirect communication continued on all year.

I had a really hard time being graded and judged negatively on things the professors never told us about. For example, not telling us it’s required to have page numbers on our presentation, or that we’re not allowed to use animations, and then marking us down for it.

This wouldn’t be so bad if there were some underlying rules for all of the school, but a lot of it came down to the personal preferences of the professors, and it was difficult for me to accept losing points for something nobody told me about in the first place.

But even with this cultural difference, I was able to learn new things, meet new people, improve my French, and pass all my classes with flying colors.

I’m really proud of what I’ve accomplished so far, and despite it being a challenge, super stressful, and at times exceedingly frustrating, I’m really glad I decided to go back to school and go back to France.

I'd like to say that next semester I'll be better prepared for the lack of direct communication coming my way, but I'm not sure I was more accepting of it Spring semester as opposed to Fall.

Sometimes a girl just needs page margins and font size defined before writing a paper.

Les Couverts

Meeting the parents of a significant other is always stressful, but I was adding in cultural differences, language barriers, a weeklong stay, and being a vegetarian in a very meat-based culture.

Trying to make a good impression during one of the first dinners with the parents, monsieur pommettes brought up a culture factoid I had previously shared with him.

“In America, they hold their forks and knives differently, and use their knives a lot less!” my French boyfriend told his parents.

I immediately panicked.

While true that in America we switch the fork holding hand before eating and in France they tend not to, and the French certainly use their knives much more like a tool than in the good ol’ States, I was fearful of what sort of image that statement would evoke.

Would they think all Americans are knife-less barbarians that only eat with their hands?

His mother’s instant reply was, “Well, she certainly uses her knife better than you do.”

I secretly preened. Having spent 3 years observing and mimicking French table manors in a never-ending effort to be more French, I couldn’t be happier my efforts were paying off. Nevertheless, M.P. did have it right – table manors are not the same on our two continents.

“Merci, but I learned how to do this while living in France,” I explained. I then told them about the differences between American and Continental dining etiquette I’ve observed over the years, all the way down to using bread to soak up sauces, or using a spoon to eat cake.


An illustration of American vs. Continental fork use.
Source: Châine des Rotisseurs
While for the most part I now use continental style (i.e. I don’t switch my fork hand after cutting), every now and then I notice that I’ve made the switch without meaning to. My American dining etiquette remains a part of me, especially since I still prefer to eat my dessert with a fork.

La Bise à la Fac

In my old French life, I had the ever so mysterious bise (the traditional French greeting, a.k.a. cheek kissing) down pat.

With my boyfriends family? Yes! When meeting up with friends? Yes! When leaving friends? Yes!


Source: this great video about how to faire la bise, which I already translated.
I have discovered that school is a whole other ball game.

There are 7 of us in my masters program, and we see each other pretty much everyday. Even among our small, close-knit group, things can get a bit complicated.

Do we faire la bise every morning upon first seeing one another? No. But enough of the time to make it complicated? Yes.

For example, if we get to class early enough, we usually faire la bise, but if someone comes into class ten minutes late and is addressed after the class, a bise suddenly becomes optional. Sometimes for no apparent reason that I can tell the bise becomes optional.

Some of my classmates seem to be more pro-bise than others. While this doesn’t cause a problem per se as I now know who will and who wont demand a bise, I find it interesting that some of them are more adamant about it than others.


Source: the video.
Where it starts to get really complicated, however, is the casual crossing of paths. Sometimes, it is acceptable to simply wave. Other times, one is expected to stop and make time for a quick bise and a "ça va?”(how's it going?) before continuing on to one's destination.

To make matters worse, in my experience before la fac (university), a bise was always done upon first interaction, and never again afterwards. Here, even if I've already seen someone and said a casual "salut" (hello), a bise is still on the table for future greetings.

But again, the bise may or may not happen. It depends. On what? I couldn't tell you.

I'm winging it pretty much all the time.

Trousse

When I was an English teaching assistant one thing that I found remarkable was that even the highschoolers used pencil cases.

At the beginning of every lesson, out came the notebooks and a small pouch filled with pencils, pens, scissors, erasers, and tape.

I hadn’t used a pencil case since elementary school. I hadn’t seen a pencil case since elementary school.

I don’t know why I thought it would be any different at graduate school, but nevertheless I was surprised to see all my classmates take out their trousses (pencil cases) at the beginning of the first lecture.

By the end of the semester it became perfectly clear to me why nobody had abandoned the concept of a pencil case as something for little children.

While I had gone ahead and lost almost all my pens and pencils, my French friends still had all of theirs intact.

So for this second semester, I have taken the plunge. I have become a little bit more French.

I bought a pencil case.


My trousse in all its pink, see-through glory.
For now I still have all my writing utensils. Here's hoping I don't loose the entire trousse.

Choc Culturel Inverser

My first moment of reverse culture shock came rather quickly. It happened the same day I arrived in California. After the hour and a half long drive home from LAX, I really had to pee. I groggily went to my bathroom, and took care of business. It was after that the culture shock occurred.

I went to flush the toilet, and something was wrong. There was nothing on the top for me to pull or push. “How do I….” I began to think, when I almost immediately remembered that in America, the flush is on the side of the toilet.

Most of the big differences I was mentally prepared for. I knew I would be carded again and that the cars are bigger here. It was the smaller stuff that crept up on me unexpectedly; the weight of a coke can; how awkward it felt ending a text conversation without “bisous.”

I think what made it so weird is that most things were still the same at home. I would often quickly remember, “oh right, that’s how we do things here.” It wasn’t my home that had changed. I had changed.

Despite feeling ever so American the entire time I was living in Lille, I now felt entirely too French. It would seem I am no longer 100% either way.

Cathédrale de Reims - Rêve de Couleurs

Back in the Middle Ages when most of France’s beautiful cathedrals were built, they did not look like they do today. Instead of being a uniform beige color, the façades were painted bright, beautiful colors.

Although the paint has faded away, they still remain awe-inspiring. While in Reims for my 24th birthday champagne drinking extravaganza, FBF and I explored the Cathédrale de Reims.



Reims Cathedral, where France's Kings were crowned.

Something FBF and I didn’t account for on our trip to Reims is that my birthday falls on the same weekend as France’s journée du patrimoine (Heritage Day). La journée du patrimoine is a day in France where the public is allowed access to public buildings that they normally aren’t allowed to, or are allowed to access said buildings free of charge.

This made my birthday trip to Reims even more special, because we were able to explore things we wouldn't have been able to normally.

During the summer, and also on the weekend of the journée du patrimoine, Reims Cathedral is transformed back to its medieval glory. A twenty-minute video is projected onto the façade showing the construction of the building up to the beautifully painted finished sculptures.



Reims Cathedral illuminated at night.

After a dinner of fondu, FBF and I walked the cobblestone streets of Reims up towards the Cathedral. Making our way through the crowd, we settled for a spot in the middle of the courtyard where we had earlier enjoyed a glass of champagne. With the chiming of bells, a stunning compilation of music and lights brought the cathedral to life in a way I've never seen before.

A 41 second clip of the spectacle.

It was an awe-inspiring, wonderfully romantic way to end our first day in Reims. It was as if France gave me a birthday present, too.

Wine More Time

While in Bordeaux, I wanted to drink lots of Bordeaux wine. So while at the office du tourisme, I asked for a list of wine bars. FBF and I decided to try one called Wine More Time because it had an awesome name and a view of the grosse cloche (fat clock).


The bar au vin (wine bar).


The view.

We sat down, selected a wine from the list of vin au verre (wines by the glass) and also got the cheese plate.


The menu.

When the man came back with our wine and cheese, he asked us where we were from (no doubt hearing my accent).

When we told him where we were from, it was surprisingly not the girl from California but the boy from le Nord who was the topic of conversation.

“Moi, je suis de Toulouse, qui est aussi plus nord d’ici, mais pas assez au nord que vous!” (I’m from Toulouse, which is north of here, but nowhere near as far north as you!) he told FBF.

“Vous ne buvez pas du vin là bas, non?” (You don’t drink wine up there, do you?) he continued.

FBF confirmed that in le Nord people are more partial to beer than wine.

I then learned a little bit about the opinion the rest of France has towards Lillois.

“Ça c’est parce que vous n’êtes pas les vrais français!” (That’s because you aren’t actually French!) he exclaimed, brimming with pride to be from le Sud (the South).

FBF had the good nature to laugh, but I was taken aback. It's one thing for Americans and other foreigners to view the French as nothing but red wine drinking baguette lovers, but actual French people thinking the same thing? I was astounded.

Then I realized that half the time I tell people about Lille, I talk about how we're more Belgian than French anyway. Maybe all of France knows this, too.

And really, what's so wrong with a having a preference for beer?

Maroilles

My introduction to the cheese the North is famous for, Maroilles, was at the very beginning of my relationship with FBF. Because he’s French, I met pretty much his entire family (mom, sister, sister’s boyfriend, and aunt) within two weeks of meeting him.

It was a big family dinner, and as such I was served an appero (cocktail), an entré (appetizer), a plat (main dish), fromage (cheese), and then a dessert.

Wanting to impress, I made sure to taste everything that was served (as long as it was vegetarian).

When it came time to the cheese course, La Soeur asked me, “as-tu déjà gouté du maroilles?” (Have you already tried maroilles?)

I had not. After admitting to not having heard of it before, she raced off to the kitchen to find one of the smelliest cheeses I have still ever smelt. The rest of the family refused to try it, but hoping to make a good impression, I cut off a small slice.

I felt very much as Kad Merad’s character in Bienvenue Chez Les Ch’tis does after his first taste of the stuff when he says, “oh c’est aussi fort une fois que c’est dans l’interior?” (Oh, it’s still this strong once in the mouth?)

It was terrible. I said I didn’t like it more with my facial expression than with my words, and everybody had a good laugh. As it turned out, there was a reason no one in the family wanted a slice of the stuff.

What they had neglected to tell me is that to really enjoy maroilles, you’re supposed to cook it first. Melted maroilles is super delicious and tastes completely different from fresh-from-the-refrigerator maroilles.

I'm pretty sure La Soeur took advantage of my lack of Nordist knowledge to get me to eat cold maroilles in order to see how I took a joke. I think I took it pretty well.


A tarte au maroilles, complete with frites and a salad.
This one's from Les Compagnons de la Grappe, and it was heavenly.

I haven't let eating cold maroilles ruin this delicious cheese for me forever. I’ve now had many tartes au maroilles (a regional specialty of melted maroilles, pastry, and various other ingredients such as milk, eggs, cream, etc) with each one being a delight for my taste buds.

Being Thankful

When I celebrated Thanksgiving last year with La Maman and FBF I explained to them a family tradition. Every year before my family digs in to the delicious Thanksgiving feast, we go around the table and say 5 things we are thankful for.

I was not prepared for how difficult it would be to explain to French people what “to be thankful for” means.

Despite using words like bonheur (happiness), apprécier (to appreciate), and aimer (to like/love), the message wasn’t getting across.

Eventually they did come up with 5 things they wanted to say merci for having in their lives, even if they didn't fully grasp the concept.


Thanksgiving classics Frenchified: La Purée Americaine, Le Stuffing, and Les Hauricots Verts. Recipes here.

I’m going to make Thanksgiving dinner again this year (check out my France friendly recipes), and thought I’d share with you 5 things I’m thankful for in my French life.

1. FBF. Without him so much of France’s culture would have stayed a mystery, and I would have felt even more of an outsider. I’m also grateful that he’s able to listen to me complain about France sans arrêt, be my translator, endlessly explain cultural quirks, and still love me. It’s amazing.

2. La Belle Famille (FBF's family). They are my family in France. I’m so thankful that they invite me to all family gatherings (birthdays and holidays) not just for the exclusive access to real French family life it gives me, but especially because they are all so nice, welcoming, and generous.

3. Mes amis. One of my goals when I came out here as an assistant was to make French friends. I feel like I have accomplished that goal with flying colors, and am so thankful for the French friends in my life. But my life out here wouldn’t be complete without my fellow American expat friends who share my love-hate relationship with this beautiful, yet frustrating country.

4. Tigrou. FBF’s cat has filled the pet-less void I was living in before meeting him. I love cuddling le chaton (kitten, but he doesn't really qualify anymore as he's 11. We still call him that, though) and am so thankful that I can have a cat without actually having a cat.


Me with Tigrou. He's named after Winnie the Pooh's companion, Tigger, only en français.

5. Lille. I’m so glad I got placed in this city. It has opened my eyes to just how diverse a country France is and helped me realize that Paris isn’t France, it’s in France. There are many things that differentiate each region from one another, and I love all the things that are particular to les ch’tis: une culture de la bière, les grands places, les baraques à frites, l’accent, les beffrois, et les briques rouges (the beer culture, the big squares, the French fry caravans, the accent, the bell towers, and the red bricks) among other things.


What about you? What are you thankful for this year? Are you going to use my awesome Thanksgiving-in-France recipes?

What What in the Butt

While talking about anal sex may still be a taboo back in the States, there don’t seem to be any taboo sexual topics in France, including anal.

In my extended group of French friends everybody seems to know who’s done it, how many times, and with whom. And nobody is afraid to talk about it. Most people have at least given it a try, if not discovered that they enjoy it and continue to have it in their sexual repertoire.

At first I thought this might just be because the French are open-minded, sexually free beings and Americans are Puritan prudes.

Now I know better. I think they’re so open to anal sex because they are used to sticking things in their butts from a very young age.

Somehow the topic of suppositories came up in conversation one day with FBF. I was prescribed suppositories once in my life, when I lived in America, and it was for a butt related problem (yes, I had hemorrhoids). When FBF talked about having taken suppositories, I assumed it was for the same reason. Why else stick medicine up there?

Fast forward a month or so later, FBF and I were talking about pregnant women suffering from hemorrhoids. FBF was going on about how horrible they must be, when I had to interrupt him. “Mais, je croyais que tu les as eu?” (But I thought you already had them?) I asked.

“Quoi? Les hémorroïdes? Moi? Non, jamais. Pourquoi tu croyais ça?” (What? Hemorrhoids? Me? No. Never. Why’d you think that?)

“Bah quand on a parlé des suppositoires tu as dit que tu les avais déjà pris” (well when we talked about suppositories you said you’d already had them).

“Oui, mais je les ai prit pour les autres maladies.” (Yes, but I had them for different problems).

This is when I learned that in France, suppositories aren’t just for butt problems. They are for all types of problems. Especially for kids.

It turns out that FBF was given suppositories to fight against fevers when he got them as a child.

Kids getting stuff stuck up their butt doesn’t stop there. Not only is their medicine shoved where the sun don’t shine, but French children have a third option when getting their temperature taken at home.

They have the two we’re familiar with in America, under the armpit or under the tongue, but they also have the option of sticking a thermometer somewhere Americans don’t.

The French stick their thermometers in their children’s behinds. So you might want to think twice before taking one out of a French medicine cabinet and sticking it in your mouth.

La Braderie de Lille

My fellow Lillois told me that La Braderie de Lille is a giant flee market taking over the entire city. The first weekend in September people come from all over Europe to buy other people’s junk at really reasonable prices, and to sell their own unwanted items.


La Braderie as seen from my window.

Thinking that this would be a great opportunity to buy some small stuff that I didn’t really need but had been wanting for a while, I made a list and was looking forward to getting some really great deals.

I was disappointed. I wanted a cool, old book to turn into a jewelry box, but all the tables with old books were selling them for 15euros or more. I was also hoping to find somebody’s old regular mirror for cheap, but again there were only fancy antique mirrors being sold expensively.

The streets were not filled with other Lillois’ junk as promised.


Les Bradeurs (people who shop at La Braderie) on rue Nationale, with La Grand Place in the background.


Les Bradeurs and the Palais des Beaux Arts.

After extensive searching, I did manage to find booths set up by real Lillois selling things for next to nothing.

I bought a beautiful old book for 1.50euro. At another stand there were old books for .30 centimes, so I bought four. I also managed to buy a really cool German beer glass for 1.50euro. Despite not finding a mirror to my liking (read: inexpensive), I am quite happy with my purchases.

The good news is that there is more to the Braderie than other people’s junk so having the place over run with pricey, albeit cool, things didn’t destroy the spirit of it all.


I saw at least 6 different stands with this set of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

Beer is cheap and readily available from street venders and I might have drunk over 2 liters of beer throughout the day.

And while it wasn’t in Bergues when FBF and I paid the city made famous by Bienvenue Chez Les Ch’tis a visit, I have now enjoyed frites (fries) from Friterie Momo. The baraque à frites was at La Braderie in all its movie glory. I enjoyed a small frites, and FBF got a fricadelle. Both surpassed expectations.


Chez Momo!

During the Braderie most of the restaurants serve a regional specialty, moules-frites (muscles and fries). They participate in a concours (competition) to see who serves the most moules. While I don’t eat seafood, it was quite enjoyable to walk down the streets and see giant piles of mussels out on display. The restaurant with the biggest pile of moules wins.


A giant pile of moules.

There are also lots of different spectacles put on for free during La Braderie. While it was beautiful and sunny during the day, come night rain started falling like buckets and the events got cancelled.

It wasn’t a total waste, however, as when I was lurking inside the entryway to my apartment building waiting for the rain to stop, the parents of one of my fellow tenants invited me and all my friends into their daughter's place. We had a great time mingling and meeting the neighbors.

While La Braderie has lost some of it's authenticity as a place of one-man's-trash-is-another-man's-teasure, I enjoyed spending the day drinking beer and oogling some of the weirder things people were selling (like, would anyone pay good money for a glass coffee table with a stuffed crocodile as it's base?).

Disneyland Paris

If planning a visit to Disneyland Paris, one might expect it to be a similar experience to visiting the original Disneyland. And while there are lots of similarities between the parks, with a few changes in layout and ride styles, Disneyland Paris is a very different cultural experience from that which I am accustomed.


Château de la Belle au Bois Dormant in Disneyland Paris.

Growing up in Southern California, about a 40-minute drive from Disneyland, I have had an annual passport for more of my life than I haven’t had one, and I know the park comme ma poche (like the back of my hand). I have never needed a map.

The layout of the two parks is basically the same. You start off on Main Street, which leads you to Sleeping Beauty’s castle, beyond which lies Fantasyland. If you veer off to the right you find yourself in Discoveryland/Tomorrowland (Paris/Anaheim). On the left you can enter either Fronteirland or Adventureland.


Le plan (the map) of Disneyland Paris.

The first and most obvious difference between the parks is that there is no Toon Town in Disneyland Paris. The next one is that the Matterhorn is conspicuously absent. The last major landscape difference is that there is no Critter Country in Paris, either.

Then there are all the small differences that make each park unique, such as different tracks for Space Mountain, the placement of rides (for example, Star Tours is in the back of Discoveryland, but in the front of Tomorrowland), different restaurants, and of course different weather. Despite going in the middle of July, it rained during FBF and my visit. This explains why more of the lines are found under a roof in Paris.

The physical differences aren’t the only things distinguishing the two parks, however.

I was surprised by how much French was spoken. Instead of being in English and then Spanish, the announcements of how to behave properly before and after a ride start with French, are followed with English, and then continue in other languages I don’t speak.

Even the animatronics speak French! Imagine my surprise to find C3P0 speaking in French with R2D2 (who speaks in beeps, even in French).


C3PO talking in French to his buddy, R2D2 at Star Tours, Paris.

I realize it was silly to think that Disneyland Paris would be in English, but finding myself in a Disneyland remarkably similar to that which I came to know as a child, I kept forgetting I was in France.

But language wasn’t the only reminder that I was in France. Even if the buildings and attractions look similar, the people do not act the same.

When at Disneyland at home, I know which hours to avoid going to the restaurants if I don’t want to wait in lines, as most Americans eat meals around the same time. This is not possible at Disneyland Paris. People come from all over Europe and have such different cultural norms for when to eat that there are always people at the restaurants.

When meeting a character, instead of people forming a line based on who got there first, it's a mad dash to greet, take pictures with, and receive autographs from Disneyland Paris’s various inhabitants.

Although it happened less often in my experience, people even try to cut in the lines for attractions. An Italian family just up and walked past at least 7 people before deciding that was where they would be waiting for the ride.

Despite linguistic and cultural differences, I had a great time visiting Disneyland Paris. The most important thing stayed the same. It still felt like the Happiest Place on Earth.

l’Esprit Francais

On our last night in Bordeaux, FBF and I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather and have a picnic dinner along the Garonne River. We used our new knowledge about Bordeaux wine from our afternoon spent in a wine tasting class to buy a bottle of the stuff that we felt confident we’d like. We picked a boulangerie just because the smell wafting out of the store made my mouth water. We found a formagerie and told the lady the different types of cheeses we wanted. We choose a rondelle of chevre, a slice of brebis, a piece of tome de savoie, and a slither of morbier.

We plopped down in the grass along the part of the quai that has been transformed into a park, right next to the famous miroir d'eau (fountain). The sun was still shinning. It was a pleasantly warm evening.


The Hôtel des Fermes and its reflection in the miroir d'eau

We were looking not only at the river but also at the gorgeous Bordeaux style buildings. We were surrounded by flowers. We were having great conversation. We were drinking delicious wine and eating delicious cheese. We were feeling very much in love.

As I sat there soaking it all in and feeling so very lucky to be there in that moment, to get to experience another culture and live in France, I couldn’t keep it in. I had to share.

I must have gone on for more than five minutes about how grateful I was to be eating that cheese and drinking that wine in Bordeaux, France with my wonderful boyfriend. How beautiful the city was and how thankful I was that I got to visit it. How I was having a superb vacation and I just felt so appreciative of all I had.

To which, my very very French boyfriend replied, “oui, c’est vrai, c’est pas mal quand même (Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s not so bad).”

Les Couleurs

When I first learned the colors of the rainbow, they were as follows: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, and Purple. Then, in 2nd grade, my mind was blown away by the revelation that Purple was actually two colors, Indigo and Violet.

My color repertoire expanded greatly in 5th grade when I started using the computer. I would choose bright colors with new names, such as Magenta and Cyan.

And while now as a fully-grown adult I am aware that there are a gazillion names for a gazillion different colors (thank you paint companies), I still mainly use the original 6 to describe the world around me, with a few adjectives (dark, light, neon, etc) thrown in here and there.

It came to my attention one day while rushing around my apartment, that the French have more than 6 main colors to describe their immediate surroundings.

“Je n’arrive pas à trouver mon saaaaaaac!” (I can’t find my baaaag!) I announced to FBF.

“C’est lequel?” (Which bag is it?) FBF asked, starting to look around himself.

Now compared to what I had in les états-unis, my purse collection here is tiny. I have 7. They are all different colors.

Thinking the color would be the fastest and easiest way to distinguish this particular bag from its counterparts, I said, “C’est le rouge” (It’s the red one).

This, apparently, was no help to FBF. “Hein? Tu as un sac rouge?” (Huh? You have a red bag?).

Seconds later, I had laid my hands upon said bag. “You know! This one! My red Longchamp bag,” I said while shoving it in his face.

“Oh!” He exclaimed. “That’s not red! It’s Bordeaux.”


My red bordeaux colored bag.

“Time is an illusion. Lunch time doubly so.”

The French and I have very different notions of time. I was prepared for this in some aspects. I learned about cultural differences in my French class.

The French eat later than we do. It’s okay, expected even, to be 15 minutes late to a rendez vous. They call it le quart d'heure de politesse (the quarter hour of politeness).

What my American brain was not prepared for is the lack of precision in time in its entirety.

I first noticed it when asking the time. Instead of getting precise answers to my questions of “quelle heure est-til?” (what time is it?), people would respond with things like “20 ‘til 6” or “quarter past 3” when in reality it was something like 5:38 and not 5:40.

The French seem to care very little about the precious difference between 8:14 and 8:17 (I mean, you can do a lot with 3 minutes!), and will tell you it’s “huit heure et quart” (quarter past 8).

This fluidity in time telling doesn’t stop with the world clock. It also is found when estimating wait periods. When informing me how long it’ll take the delivery guy to get to my apartment, or how long I have to wait before picking up my delicious pizza, I am often told things like, “un petit vingt minutes” (a small twenty-minutes) or “une grosse demi heure” (a fat half hour).

A small twenty minutes? How can twenty minutes be any smaller or bigger than it is, considering it is an exact measurement of time?!

It seems that the French use petit(e) and gros(se) in order to express the American equivalent of about, around, or, between two times (ex. 15– 20 minutes).

That said, the most easily recognizable difference in perception of time comes down to whether FBF or I do the cooking.

Ever since I went off to college and started cooking for myself, I always follow the times written for the food I cook, whether it be pasta, frozen pizza, or a more complex recipe.

FBF does not.

Despite the fact that it is written clearly on the pasta box that to get Al Dente you need to put the pasta in boiling water for 10 minutes, he just wings it. He puts the pasta in and then after a moment determined by who knows what, he goes and does the taste test.

The same thing goes for frozen pizza. Despite the box informing you how long you need to cook the pizza, FBF and La Maman just put them in the oven until they look good.

They don’t set any timers. They don’t keep track of the time.

Sure, if after the ten minutes my pasta is not cooked, I will cook it for longer. But I always set an addition timer.

Independence Day vs. Bastille Day, or, the 4th vs. the 14th of July.

The 4th
Since I was 10 years old and we moved to Dana Point, my traditional 4th of July has been composed of the following activities:

• On the third of July, we decorate the golf cart with American flags, red, white, and blue streamers, and American flag pinwheels.



• We wake up early on the 4th, and participate in the neighborhood 4th of July parade, wearing Holiday themed clothes and accessories (even my dog participates; he has an American flag bandana).




• After lunch, we all head down to the beach. This is where the drinking begins.



• We BBQ for dinner, and have a bonfire.



• Around 9:30pm, fireworks go off over the ocean.



• And as I’ve gotten older, my friends and I have stayed later and later at the beach, continuing the drinking bit.

The 14th
So far, I’ve only experienced one Bastille Day here in France, and it looked nothing like a 4th of July.

• There is no civilian parade. The military has a parade in Paris, and apparently has one in Lille also, but even FBF who has lived here his whole life didn’t know about the one in Lille.



• Nobody wears holiday appropriate clothing. I didn’t see anybody wearing blue white and red.



• There were no parties organized among friends to spend the national holiday at a picnic or the beach or at a BBQ, just drinking and enjoying each other’s company.

FBF and I invited La Soeur and her beau over for dinner here, and I did my best to make it theme appropriate – we had champagne cocktails and vegetarian croque monseiurs for dinner.

The only thing that these two National Holidays have in common, in my limited experience, is fireworks, even if you have to wait until 11pm for it to be dark enough to light them in le Nord.

And boy oh boy did the city of Lille outdo itself with its gorgeous fireworks display.


Joyeux 14 Julliet (complete with des coeurs (hearts))!

Although it was a completely different experience from what I'm used to on American soil, I still very much enjoyed Bastille Day. What's not to like about standing hand in hand with FBF while watching fireworks light up the sky?