The seasons are a changing

In the last two days I have experienced all the major weather cycles. It has been a crazy climatic weekend. Friday morning I woke up to torrential rain bucketing down and a white frosted sky. Not having an employer to account to (oh the joy), I decided to stay home and spend the morning writing and cooking for the dinner party we were having that night (and of course, go back to sleep for an hour listening to the rain on the sky light). On Friday I didn't leave the house all day, until the sun came out that afternoon, and I decided to go for a walk around the village.

Saturday morning was glorious, it felt like Spring had finally decided to pop in and greet us. I felt elated and compelled to go outside for a long walk, past the village market (which is weekly on a Saturday) and around my new neighbourhood. As I walked, and past all the friendly village folk, "bonjouring" as I went, I felt a smile permanently fix itself to my face. It is not a new realisation for me, I have known for a long time that the weather completely alters my mood, and a blue sky and sun on my skin inevitably means I will have a good day. I know it is probably not all together healthy to have my personality and outlook dictated by something as fickle as the weather man, but oh well.

My calmness and clarity that had come from a walk in the sun (also the much needed Vitamin D that it brought) stuck around, despite the sun not. By lunch time the frosting had reappeared and the sun had snuck behind the clouds like a shy little kid hiding behind her mother's legs. A light drizzle in the early evening and then another little smattering of sunshine at about 6pm (when I walked up to the Boulangerie in the village to buy some bread for a friend we were having dinner at that night.)

And then on Sunday morning the weather was crazy.We had been warned on Saturday night that Paris was expecting huge winds, and a friend even messaged us to say that there were going to be 100km winds coming up during the night and in the early morning. We latched up the shutters on all the windows (a thoroughly French thing to do) and fell asleep, but woke up several times during the night to a howling wind and thrashing trees. The frosted sky was alive and raging. When I came downstairs this morning I found that a window had blown wide open and all the papers and books in the study had been thrown around. It looked as if a hurricane had ripped through the house. Leaves and twigs were strewn around on the floor and papers danced in the air. I shut the window tight and spent the rest of the day indoors, in my pyjamas, reading, writing, and catching up on trashy (english) TV. What a day! I am thoroughly loving my days at home here, which I never ever get in Sydney.

The crazy storm lasted a few more hours. Apparently flights were delayed all over Paris. Our neighbour, Paul, popped around this evening, and we relished in how novel this crazy weather is, and how strange it is that we chose this year of all years to be here, when France had the coldest winter they had had in thirty years. Paul nonchalantly told us that this "crazy wind" happens regularly, and even weekly down south! I still think that we are witnessing a mad world of topsy turvy weather patterns, Global Warming, and all that politicized jazz.

The truth though is that one of the things I was most looking forward to about living in France for a year was the opportunity to experience all the seasons as they come and go. To really feel the bitterness of winter, the full covering of snow, the green and rebirth of Spring, the abundance and long Summer days, and then the slow cooling down and red leaves of Autumn. This is a real treat for someone who comes from Sydney and only ever sees Winter and Summer, two dichotomies without any real change in between. We even get all the same foods all year round. Aside from slightly less bikini clad tanned bodies roaming the streets, the city is essentially the same all year.

This weekend I felt Spring was close though, and it made me exhilarated. Even though I just said that it is so wonderful to see and feel the seasons, taste them, through the seasonal produce in the markets, and experience them as the days get longer and then shorter once again, blah blah blah..bring on Spring and Summer I say, and let the sunshine in. I am after all a tanaholic from Sydney, you know.

Merci,

Mel

Fiction or faction?

The last few days I have been feeling as though writing this blog is a burden rather than an outlet for myself. I need to change that. What I want to talk about today is the books I have been reading, because they have in large shaped my experience here and my insights.

Since arriving in France I have read quite a few books, one every two weeks or so. Despite loving reading and books, back in Sydney I don't find myself reading much, as I am generally running between work, home, friends, family and the gym and am not able to slot in some quiet reading time. In fact, I generally don't have much quiet time at all. I am so glad that since I have been here, this has changed. It has been such a gift to be able to sit down with a cup of peppermint tea, or The Menthe, as they call it here, curl up on the couch and read. It is actually so good to be able to sit and think, quietly. It does help also that we arrived here in Winter and the snow, rain or cold outside makes it perfect book/couch weather. Jonathan has reminded my a few times that here I am happy staying home, I don't even want to go out, whereas in Sydney, I am rearing to go as soon as the day breaks. I figure it is the sun calling me, here I am content to be inside with the heaters on.

Since being here, I have chosen to read only books that are set in Paris or France, or discuss ideas and issues about France. It is not difficult, given how many books there are out there about this. Setting myself this challenge (I'm not sure it will last the whole year, but we will see how it goes) means that I am immersing myself fully into all things French. Living France, seeing France, reading France. I haven't even checked "SMH Online" since departing sunny Sydney.

So, what I've read in the last few weeks:
-La Vie Parisienne: Looking for Love — and the Perfect Lingerie by Janelle McCulloch
-Almost French by Sarah Turnbull
-A Certain Je ne Sais Quoi by Charles Timoney
-The Sharper the Knife, the Less you Cry by Kathleen Flinn
-And I'm about to start The Elegance of the Hedgehog.It is meant to be excellent. A good friend back home gave it to me before I left, and I have since seen it come up in many good bookshops in Paris. I can't wait to get into it.

Interestingly,all the books I have read have been memoirs or personal stories. They have fixated me and I have become obsessed. All of the books have captured Paris as a character in it's own right, all the beauty and the grime of the city, all the confusing cultural nuances and irritating French behaviours. In Janelle McCulloch's book,she runs away to Paris as a young girl The city leaves an indelible print and she returns many years later to live there for a year. She acutely observes Parisienne style and life in action. In the process she also divulges a lot about herself, often very personal information. The same can be said about Kathleen Flinn's book and the now very famous, Almost French.

These books resonated quite strongly with me because they had the additional feature of an Australian girl leaving home for the city of love. I now feel as though Janelle and Sarah are friends of mine, and I felt for them as they struggled with adapting to the new city and leaving behind so much they love from home, as I am and have.

There are some big differences between myself and these women though. Firstly, I'm not actually in Paris, but just south of the big smoke, and also these girls left not knowing exactly how long they would stay and what the next stage in their lives would hold. Sarah stayed for 6 years, married her French boyfriend and started calling Paris 'home'. We have said we will be here for one year. I guess I did move for a boy, but alas he is not a Frenchman, and I do believe that we will be back in Australia. Still, their fears and thoughts were so real for me, and I loved hearing about their observations about french life and culture. I wonder what my time here will bring about?

While it may sound like a cliche, and the idea of writing about a year (or more) in France may not excite most editors or publishers, it still excites me, and each of these stories were different and reflective and poignant in their own way.

I just wanted to say this today, that's all.

Merci,

Mel

Courage and a coiffure

Putting my life in someone else's hands yesterday, I decided to be brave and courageous and adventurous - I went to a hairdresser, in France. For me, this was never a regular occasion. For years I saw a hairdresser every 3 months when the split ends got too ratty, but since I have entered the world of colouring (something which is hard to stop once you start), somehow I cannot wait so long. I have been in France for 2 months now and not only can I tell that from a calendar, but also the length of my regrowth!

Before leaving Sydney I made an appointment with my hairdresser in Bondi and knew that this might be the last time that I come away with the natural, usual hair colour I have grown newly accustomed to. I dreaded the day when I would have to find a new hairdresser in France, and one that does not speak English! Fears of coming out of the salon a blonde or red-head, or with short hair and a fringe, pervaded my thoughts. In the end though, the last few days I have become desperate. I think the last straw was when I looked at a photo of myself, with orange hair and black roots - not a good look!

So, the task became to decide on a particular salon. Fontainebleau is full of coiffures. For a relatively small town, there are apparently 28 hairdressers! Not surprisingly though, as French woman are extremely driven by aesthetics, always extremely well groomed and polished. A weekly "brushe" (blowdry to us) is a common occurrence, and even walking down the street to buy baguette or fruit from the market, the women look neat and "dressed up". No one would be caught dead walking out of the house in tracksuit pants or gym clothes, which in Sydney, is almost fashionable!

After walking past quite a few salons, I decided on Dessange. It is a large chain from Paris, and slightly more expensive than some of the other salons, and I used this fact to justify that it would be "safer." Probably, misguided, but at least with some reason behind it.

Making the appointment was a perfect introduction to what I believed would be a difficult situation. I have learnt dates, days of the week and time in French class so thought this would be a cinch. I walked into the salon ("it'll be much easier to do in person rather than over the phone" I thought) and was immediately confronted with a nonchalant and casual bonjour. The lady behind the reception, a pretty brunette, looked at me, waiting for a response. My mouth froze up and my brain switched off. I forgot what to say. Then out of my mouth I heard myself saying, "je m'appelle..I mean..." French 101. I don't need to say my name when walking into a hairdressing salon to make an appointment. Come on, Mel.

Thankfully, things got a bit better from there. I asked the woman if she spoke English, to which she (as expected) replied, "non," with a reassuring and apologetic smile. It was fine though. I explained that I wanted ("I want" is one of the phrases I have perfected in French) "coloure" which intuitively is also colour. Then came making the appointment. Days of the week fine, time so-so. The french use 24-hour-time, which en anglais I am average at, (I often have to think about what 21.00 and 18.00 are) so in French, it is just that little bit harder. With an appointment made though, for Vendredi, Friday, at 15h00, all was good.

The cultural observations I was able to pick up walking into the salon on Vendredi were numerous. The unfamiliar systems stood out and made me instantly into a foreigner. On walking in, your coat is taken, then you are ushered into a different room at the back of the salon looking out onto the courtyard. Not the room in the front, where it appears you go after, a different room. I don't ask, just follow the lady from reception. A white coat is given to me to put on (I forgot to mention that all the people working in the salon wear white coats like they are in an operating theatre!). "Cafe, the, chocolat?" I am offered. "The s'il vous plait" Then I wait, and wait. I am completely content, enjoying the peace and quiet to just sit and read. I could come here every week just for the hour or 2 of sitting, this the greatest pampering of all.

Next to me, a woman probably in her thirties with a full face of thick make-up, botoxed cheeks and all black attire (which I now understand to be the French female winter uniform) is sitting under a heat machine. Her already blonde hair is being bleached more. She sips on her espresso and smiles at me. What is she thinking? She smiles my way sympathetically (not pityingly?) overhearing our conversation in English.

As it turns out, Sami, my coiffure, is a lovely French balding man in his forties perhaps, with perfectly good English. Certainly good enough to explain to him what I am after, and for him to give me his feedback. He is friendly and down to earth and I am so pleased. Always the drama queen and worrier, it turns out that venturing to a hairdresser in a foreign speaking country is easy, or maybe I was just lucky this time. Orange hair averted and black roots gone, I am content, and best of all, it doesn't even look like I have just been to the hairdresser. Au natural!

I am then brought into the front room. Ah, it must be a separate blow-drying room. They offer me one, which I am happy to go without. I don't need the extra expense and I don't have any particular plans for the weekend to make use of a nice blow dry.But of course, the brunette from the reception babbles something in French which I don't understand, so I nod and agree. "What the hell." As it turns out you can never walk out onto the street in France with wet washed hair, this is just not acceptable.

Blondie next to me is sipping another espresso. I am sure she will be there next time, no matter in how many week or months time I make my next appointment, she'll be there, bleached and blow-dried to the max.

Merci,

Mel

Locked out

Tonight I realised how hard (and treacherous) it can be to be living in a country where you don't really speak the language.We got home, in darkness and dropping temperatures, only to find our front door handle had broken and the door could not be opened! The handle has been giving us trouble for the past few weeks and every so often decides to drop off, but can usually be coaxed back on and then is temporarily fine again. Tonight, not so. And, just our luck, our landlords (who conveniently also happen to be our neighbours) are away! For just these kinds of situations, it pays to have your landlord next door, but as luck would have it, when we need it, they aren't.

With the small light provided by our phones, we tried desperately to jiggle the handle of the door back on, but nothing. We resorted to looking at windows, which we were completely happy to climb through, also all locked, and another door around the side, locked as well. (This door also cannot actually be opened, but we were informed by our landlady that it is not working and not going to be fixed because it is too expensive). So, we were stuck and stranded. It was now coming up to half an hour and overnight temperatures in winter are not fun!

My next plan was to find a phone number for a locksmith and get them to come out. Easy when you speak the same language, not so easy for us. Getting the number was no problem, thanks to an iphone and the miracles of google, but trying to explain to them what we needed and understanding what they were saying about why they can't help, was another thing altogether!

I was actually pretty impressed with myself in terms of the conversation. (I, by the way, am the only one who does this talking to french people, never Jonathan!) I start off with the polite, "bon soir" and then quickly go onto stating "parlez vous anglais?" Unanimously, the response was "uhh..no" and we had one "a little..." But, even with the person who spoke "a little" anglais, the result was hopeless. The people I called could cut keys but not fix broken door handles. None of them could direct me to someone who could. Pretty damn good though they I understood the issue about keys (I learnt that word in french class) and was able to (sort of) explain that we needed someone to fix our door, "ouvrez la porte."

About to give up, sitting in our car to keep warm, I decided to try one of the neighbours, none of which we have met yet by the way. Of course, it would only be the woman who tries this one, a man would never go and ask someone for help (heaven forbid!) Luckily, we had me (a woman) and I was prepared to knock on a neighbour's door and beg them for help. Especially in a country where we don't speak the language and don't know the customs and systems about practical things, like getting an emergency locksmiths, I have learnt that you have to put your hand up for help. So, I did.

Walking into a house across the street, I started with an apology and the standard "do you speak english?" line. Naturally, the response was, "uh, no, pardon." No surprises there. But this time it did not stop me. I launched into a story, in simplified english, with the occasional french word thrown in where I knew it, and the occasional miming action, and eventually they understood what the problem was. The lovely man (to who we are forever grateful) came with me to see the situation. With a spanner and a torch and a lot more coaxing and jiggling, the door opened! I really thought we were going to be standing outside all night. And, the best part is, it was going to be all my fault, because I was the one that locked the door on the way out. Interesting though, that I was the one who got the help and I was the one that was doing all the speaking in french on the phone.

No matter how many "merci boucoup" I said, I still could not communicate my thanks to Mr Neighbour (whose name I didn't catch, even though I asked him). Whoever said the french aren't friendly, haven't been to Rue Ciceri in Bourron Marlotte. But, my god, I need to learn some french, it just makes everything so much harder. The upside is that I gain material to write about.

Merci (Mr nice neighbour man),

Mel

A single cup of tea and half a piece of cake

I met Marie-Francois at my cooking class. She is a lovely middle-aged French woman who lives with her husband in Fontainebleau. Her adult children are in Paris, where they all used to live before moving down to the countryside. Marie-Francois -lets just call her MF (but could she get a more French name?)is gorgeously French, and oh-so French indeed. Today I had tea with her and spent 2 hours speaking solely in French, but mainly getting by through listening and nodding and throwing in the occasional "oui, d'accord, oui" which is basically what the french continually say in conversation, meaning "yes, ok, yes." There is lots of "d'accord" in French conversations. And, in my case, it makes it sound like I understand what is going on. It's a great trick!

The cooking class both MF and I attend is taught in English, and MF struggles through it, because her English is not very good. (But, leaps and bounds better than my French!) The really adorable thing about MF is that when she explains things or tells a story, in English, it is done in half mine and half "how do you say..."language, with lots of hand actions and demonstrations. For example, she explained how she makes her own mayonnaise without any real words, just lots of hand gestures and mimes to show peeling eggs, chopping them, adding the oil and so on. It is amazing how communication can still happen without words. Sometimes, tricky and always hilarious, but still possible.I think I got how to make MF's mayonnaise.

So, last week I mentioned to MF her that I am learning French but am not very good, and she offered for me to come over to her house for tea and French speaking. That is what I did this afternoon. I am pretty impressed with myself, firstly, for going along with the offer (most unlike me), then for being able to follow (ok, some bits) of the conversations, but most importantly for giving it a go and saying a couple of sentences and phrases. Look, I probably sounded like a five year old with a mild learning disability, but at least I gave it a shot. It is bloody hard to just speak!

We had tea and cake in the salon, a glorious old-world lounge room filled with antiques, and drank proper tea out of sweet little tea cups. Everything about it was so quaint and proper. I had to contain myself from eating the cake with my fingers, and of course, didn't finish it or accept the offer for a second cup of tea. (At home, I have about 4 cups of tea and always, read always, pick at my food - it is almost my signature style. I pick at crumbs and slivers, because then I don't feel as though I am consuming as many calories - ridiculous, I know!)

Of course, I couldn't be as chatty, personable and opinionated as I am in English,and it was pretty alienating at times. She probably thought I was shy and perhaps a little stupid - only answering in a single sentence, and then saying "Ok, ok, yes, yes" a lot. But, if invited again, I'm definitely going to go back to MF's house. Just listening to the French, even if I couldn't understand it, was wonderful. It made me feel like I was in France. And, who knows, maybe I'll learn a thing or two about when to really say, "d'accord" and how to really only want to eat half the cake.

The best part is that when I told MF that I am writing, she said (in her adorable Franglesh) "maybe, we will be in your stories" - and she so made it in!

Merci,

Mel

Clarifying Julia and butter

Last night while making dinner, Jonathan, my fiance (newly, so still slightly freaked out by that word) decided that he wanted to try something new. I had taken out of the freezer a chicken breast for him but hadn't worked out what we were going to do with it yet. That was his job. Since we have arrived in France, I have embodied the perfect house wife, and I'm damn good at it. I can multi-task and bake cakes, write blogs, respond to emails and do the washing all at once. But god damn it, the vegetarian does not need to cook the chicken as well.

I'm getting distracted, where was I? Jonathan was deciding what to do with the chicken breast. Where does he go to but my Julia Child cookbook. I know, even the mention of that word in a blog makes me quiver with cliched chills, but don't worry, I promise not to dwell too much on it,and not do more than one posting about the JC word (jesus christ?) She is just about elevated to that status now in the blog world!

So, what does he decide to make? Supremes de Volaille a la Milanaise, basically a fancy french chicken schnitzel. "But it is coated in parmesan cheese, this is my favourite," he says with a puppy dog face and imploring eyes. Of course, he can make whatever he wants with the defrosted chicken, and at least he is the one following the JC recipe and not this blogger!

Supremes de Volaille a la Milanaise calls for a supremes, or chicken breast, salt, pepper, flour, 1 egg, freshly grated Parmesan cheese and fresh white bread crumbs. The recipe was suprisingly easy for a JC creation. Basically you dip the breast into the beaten egg, roll it in the cheese and bread crumbs, pat it in place and allow it to sit for 10 minutes before frying it. Then comes the importance bit, and basically the reason for my posting. What do you fry it in, that's right, you guessed it, BUTTER. And not just any butter, clarified butter. And what do you serve the chicken with? Brown butter sauce!

So what is clarified butter? it is butter which is melted to separate the clear butter liquid and thick milk solids, which is a protein rich solution. When this is removed what you have left is pure buttery gold lava. Tell me again why french women don't get fat?

Explaining what clarified butter was to Jonathan is when I had the light bulb moment for this blog - the genius french chefs actually invented a more fattening, more creamy, more indulgent creation than butter itself. What is just too funny though is that brown butter sauce in french is called Beurre Noisette - guess if I ever order that one in a restaurant I will know what I'm getting!

Merci,

Mel

Je suis touriste?

This weekend I was a tourist. On Saturday evening we boarded the Bateaux Parisiens and set sale on the Seine, along with the hoard of foreigners, desperate to do everything truly "Parisienne."

Oh, tourism, it is such a strange phenomenon. We go away to an often far away and exotic location, trawl through guide books (promising to help us do and see everything we need to) in some anxious attempt to ensure we get an "authentic" experience, see how the locals eat, play, work, all the while making sure we tick off all the big sites and attractions that symbolise that place. Travelers are a strange species. The "sites" we must see are often the least symbolic and most inauthentic. And do not think that I am excluding myself from this description - I am often a self-confessed Lonely Planet junkie travelaholic. I know it is ridiculous, but at least I can analyse it and laugh at it. At least I'm aware of it, right?

This year in France, I reckon I can say with some self respect, that I am not (ok, not always) a tourist. But this weekend I was. I put on my corporate wife (well, almost wife) hat and went along to a corporate dinner cruise on the Bateaux Parisiens. Lets just say that I would not have wanted to have paid for it myself, but if someone else is paying, well, I'm not exactly going to turn down a free night out in Paris, even if it turns me into a tourist for the night.

Everything about it was cheesy; from the photographer who snaps away in your face almost as soon as you sit down at your table, and then at the end of the night brings around large glossy photos of you and your loved one kissing. Yuk! Imagine 400 photos of cutesy couples made to "now kiss" for the camera, aboard a tacky boat cruise amongst 398 other tourist couples. And, I could go on. Does anyone think that a show boat singer belting out "New York, New York" on a Paris night out is really "French"? Surely, not. My fear is that had I asked the question to my fellow cruisers on Saturday night, they might have answered positively.

Cheap wine and a huge bill tops off these sorts of nights out which make a killing off poor innocent tourists. It is almost extortion. Except that people love it! I never saw a bill, and don't know how much it costs, but I'd expect something like this would have cost in the vicinity of 100 Euros! I could think of a much better way to spend it on good food and wine in Paris. But as much as I criticise and moan, I have to admit I did take a few snaps of myself head superimposed in front of the Eiffel Tower with my iphone as we sailed past.

We dined on fois gras, duck l'orange, and chocolate gateaux. I had a concoction of cream, champignons and chestnuts - perhaps, an opportune time to tell you all (for those that don't already know) that I am not an eater of fois gras or duck or any of the animal species. Yes, a concept somewhat foreign to my French friends, but it is true, je suis végétarien. And, as much as I hate to admit it, je suis touriste. But at least, not all the time.

Merci,

Mel

Our local

Living in a small village outside of Paris, and even outside of Fontainebleau, can be a frightening for a city girl. It certainly was when we arrived here, and it still is sometimes. However, one of the advantages of a French village (and I am discovering quite a few others as time goes on) is the truly wonderful eating experiences.

If I were writing a travel guide I would say that Bourron-Marlotte is a commune in the Seine-et-Marne department in the Île-de-France region in north-central France. Apparently it has a population of about 3,000 people. This is where we live.

We haven't got to know the locals yet, probably in large to do with the fact that we cant really communicate with them, but also because the residents of Bourron-Marlotte know each other intimately. Most of them have lived here for decades together, and when you live in a small village you get to know your (two) bakers and (one) butcher and all your neigbours really well.

I recently read an article about Bourron-Marlotte, that was written a few years ago, by an American journalist who has been living here for some 30 years and now calls it home. He writes about all the local personalities, like the pretty baker at the boulangerie on Rue Murger, Madame Canault, with whom he discusses everything from the daily fresh bread to the bigger issues of life. The photo I included in this posting is of the boulangerie in town.

I witnessed a gorgeous life moment the other day when I watched the interaction between two women on my street. There was a joy in seeing each other, a heart-felt bonjour, and then proceeded questions about their husbands and their respective health. The conversation ended with (I think, because obviously I was trying to follow this in French) a "see you on Saturday at the market" and a casual hug and wave. This just does not happen in Sydney. Fights with neighbours over adjoining walls is much more common interactions.

I am slowly starting to love it here. I do hope I get to know some of the villagers, at least in a few months. Sure, I have only been here about a month, and by no means even close to the concept of being a "local", but I have eaten at the intensely popular local bistro. Bistrot Du Broc, is a wonderful find. On Friday evening we booked a table for dinner with a group of friends. I booked the table (in french, I might add!) on Wednesday, and apparently this was already late because if we wanted a table in the main dining room on Friday or Saturday night you have to book by Tuesday. This, in a small semi-regional town - crazy, I feel as though I am back in inner-city Sydney!

But Bistrot Du Broc (on the main street in town, Rue Murger) is popular for a reason. Hearty, authentic French food served in a rustic but gorgeously eclectic and cozy bistro. Boef Bourgignon, Pave Saumon (even a non-Frenchie could guess that one) and lots of steaks were ordered. All the food was wonderful, but the best part about the meal was walking in and feeling "at home," amongst all the French paraphernalia. There is no French pomp and snob here, and the women even eat the baguette placed down on the table and refilled throughout the meal.

Walking through the door you are instantly greeted with a warm bonsoir and an offer to have a drink with the owners at the bar. There is no rushing, wait as long as you like, have a few drinks, a bowl of nuts is placed down in front of you straight away (and this time I didn't have to order them!) and then when you're ready, sit down. And there are no tourists there, even me, I suppose, is now a kind-of-resident, non?

Rudolph Chelminski, the American journalist I mentioned who now lives in Bourron-Marlotte, says that he still feels like a "foreigner" here but as such, has been accepted and even integrated into the community. I wonder if this will ever happen to us, I'm guessing not if we call this this village home for just one year, but I guess, only time will tell.

Merci,

Mel

Sweet temptations

Since I have been in France I have had some amazing meals. I guess, I didn't expect anything else from the country whose cuisine has inspired the world all over. When you think about France, chances are you think about food. From the gastronomical fromageries (cheese shops), epicurean boulageries (bakeries) and tres dangereux patisseries, you can't walk more than a few metres without stumbling on something wondrous to put into your mouth.

As a self-confessed foodie, I need to chart some of my favourite meals, snacks and everything else in between, because god knows, the French eat all the time, no matter what time of the day it is! (This is something we noticed as soon as we arrived in Paris, whether it is 3pm, 5pm or 11am breakfast/brunch/lunch/afternoon dinner/early dinner/late supper, somewhere someone is always eating). It's fascinating!

I am going to keep a list of some of my fave haunts and keep adding to it. Some places will be worthy of a full posting in their own right. Today I will just talk about patisseries and places of oh so sweet things. St Germain has two of my new favourites: Gerard Mulot and Pierre Herme.

You can't miss Gerard Mulot on Rue de Seine. There will always be a line outside the front and the smell of baking croissants, brioche and quiche wafting down the street. You can find it by following your nose. A "local" parisian friend took me there, and I have been back twice since. It is always good to know that the art of eating croissant et cafe in the mid morning is not just a thing for the tourist trade. This artisan patisserie is full of French people doing their thing, which at many times of the day involves consuming a buttery (there's that word again) treat and a strong black coffee. I would recommend their spinach tart and salmon quiche too. c'est tres bon!

And right around the corner from Gerard, if you are still peckish (and even if you're not, this is a must see!) is Pierre Herme. You might be mistaken in thinking that you are walking past a chic boutique when you stroll past the Herme abode. And The Wallpaper guide informed me that Pierre also shows off his creations twice a year on the catwalks. But tucked away in a small street behind St Germain Boulevard is the home of the gloriously decadent and visully spectacular macaroon mansion (though it is only a few square metres in size).

I had never really been a devoted fan of the macaroon (pronounced ma-ca-ron with a heavily rolled "r" sound) until I came to Paris. These little divine jewel coloured morsels can be up to 4 Euros a pop, and are only one mouthful! Oh, but they are so worth the money and the calories. A thin, crisp shell, circular in shape, slightly rounded, and a tender interior. Just thinking about it now makes me quiver with pleasure.

When I was there on a Saturday afternoon, Parisians were queuing up to storm the tiny boutique. The piles of multi coloured temptations are a feast for the eyes, they are just so glorious and beautiful that you cannot help yourself. It is like a child in a candy store or moths to light. The divine delicacies come in flavours like white chocolate, hazelnut and truffle or other exotic incarnations such as rose and litchi.You have not known Paris until you have loved macarons, it is haute couture for the taste buds.

Merci,

Mel

Too funny to not share

Since posting my story about my noisette mix up, I have been inundated with emails from people who have had similar experiences, who sympathise with me, and laugh at me - because it happened to them too. I must say, it makes me feel a whole lot better.

I am going to share two of these stories with you. One from a woman in Sydney, and the other a woman (who also happens to be my landlady) in France. I hope they don't mind, and no doubt they will read this in a few days. But all remains confidential, I promise. Just to be safe we will call one Miss S and the other Mrs B.

When Mrs B first arrived in France with her husband on a meager student budget, they found a cheap hotel and went to get a bite to eat at a local café. Feeling very 'local' sitting at the bar, they ordered two sandwiches, thinking that they couldn't go too wrong with that word. "Et du vin rouge, monsieur".The waiter arrived with a bottle of wine and started opening it. Panic set in as they thought that they would have to pay for the entire bottle, which would blow their budget, so they quickly added "Deux glaces" specifying, or so they thought, only 2 glasses of wine. Le garçon looked puzzled (much like my pretty skinny black attired waitress) but went back and started preparing two huge ice creams in glass bowls, whipped cream and it all. That was when it dawned on them that 'glâce' is not 'glass' in French but ice cream! With not enough French to explain themselves out of the predicament, they blew their budget and paid for the wine (just 2 glasses of course) and the expensive ice creams! Et Voilà!

Miss S also has a story about a language mix up but unfortunately for her (perhaps fortunately for us) one with a more hilarious, and embarrasing, result. When I heard this one, I was rolling on the floor laughing. Sorry S - but I have to share, it is just too good.

When Miss S arrived in France, with limited French, she one day exclaimed in the summer heat "Je suis chaude!" (literally meaning "I am hot!"). What she meant to say (which I now know too- p.s thanks) was "J'ai chaude", which is the correct phrase in French. It was only after she had said it that she realised what she had actually said. Yes, it means "I'm hot" but in a very different context. What she had inadvertently said was "I am excited" in the physical sense, and it is quite vulgar when said by a woman! Needless to say S refused to speak for a week, but thankfully now laughs about it. Et voila! Thanks ladies, too funny to keep to myself.

Merci,

Mel

Pierre, my abs, and a long story about nothing

The weather here is mad. Yesterday afternoon it started pouring with snow (can you use that word to describe snow?).Not just little soft white flakes, but massive chunky snow flakes that seemed to spew out of the suede skies. Sitting in my cottage in Bourron Marlotte, looking out the window, I felt as though I could have been in a fairytale. The image was so foreign to my eyes, I had to remind myself of where I was and that this is real, this is my life. A few hours later the sun came out.

Today I have been thinking about the concept of foreignness. The strangest thing has been the realisation that not everything is unfamiliar and new when you pack up your life and move to the other side of the world. Some things do not change and some days I feel as though I have been airlifted with my life and just plonked back down in my new surroundings. I am the same, lots of things around me are the same, but yet the context is so different. It is as if I have packed things from my home into a couple of (what were very heavy) suitcases and just unpacked them here (albeit in a much more cramped wardrobe). The difference and the sameness all at once is surprising and already has produced some pretty hilarious results.

Enough rambling, what I'm getting to is a story that happened to me today, just a few hours ago. I joined a gym here in Fontainebleau in an effort to normalise my life, carry on with the familiar, and stay off the kilos from the beurre (another reference to the ever present butter).

At first I was disappointed that it did not resemble my gym back home. I don't know why I expected the gym to look like the one I went to in Sydney, how could it? Still, it is a gym, and like all human nature I performed the same behaviour, used the same equipment and felt as though I could have been in Sydney or anywhere else for that matter. I can't believe a treadmill made me feel so comfortable and safe.

Until that is, I spoke to the man at the front desk. Pierre (could he be more French if he tried?)is an attractive older man with grey hair and an earring. He works in the gym and also provides free personal training. A crass American woman tells me that he was the French weight lifting champion a few years running. Why he is working in a university gym in Fontainebleau (not even in Paris!) astounds me. But anyway, for me Pierre is the reminder that I am in France, and it is a very good reminder. Pierre is very French. He is french in his mannerisms, his accent, and his inability to speak English (despite most users of the gym not speaking much French). Each morning when I enter the gym he smiles and says "bonjour" and I proudly reply with my own "Bonjour" and even throw in a "ca va?"

But today I had a personal training session with Pierre. Let's just say it was memorable enough an hour to warrant a long posting about it. I can get by with counting in French, so have no problem following his instructions for sit-ups as he counts, 'un, deux, trois, quatre..." and so on and so on and so on (goodness, the French really like their repetitions and their abs!). However the language barrier did prove slightly more challenging when he tried to explain complex positions to place my legs in as I lay on a mat on the floor. At this moment, I was actually pleased that we don't share a common language. Sometimes it is a blessing not to have to say anything. I could learn a lot from this.

We have another session together next Tuesday. Maybe at the end of the year I will be able to speak fluently in French gym lingo and nothing else. And maybe Pierre will know English phrases like "Ow, enough, my quads hurt" and "bloody ab slave driver!" Or maybe we will just stick to legs and mats and counting, over and over again.

Merci,

Mel

Parisienne cool, non?

I have had all of two french lessons and do not profess to be anywhere close to conversational yet. Far from it. But when you're out in a cafe amongst the classy Frenchies doing their afternoon cafe express or vin rouge, you can't exactly ask the waitress for your order in a strong Aussie accent. It's embarrassing, and what's more, you want to feel as cool as the waitress in her all-black-skinny attire. So, in my attempt at being Parisienne cool this weekend, I fell straight into my first big blunder, in a St Germain cafe at about 6 o'clock on Saturday evening. And to make it even worse, I actually thought I had done it and had successfully placed my order in French, in the right accent, to the waitress of cool.

Nursing my glass of vin rouge (red wine for those not following) I decided some peanuts would complement my glass of pinot. I motioned the waitress over with a subtle and delicate wave of my hand and smiled at her as I said politely, "Je vudrais noisette s'il vous plait". At first the pretty little thing weakly smiled and said "pardon, noisette?" Thinking that she just didn't understand my accent, I over pronounced "noisette" to her a second time. This time she got it. "Agh." I was content, I did it, I ordered the nuts. About five minutes later, she came back with an espresso coffee and placed it down in front of me. I couldn't even explain to her that that was not what I had ordered. The table next to me giggled quietly. Oh merde! Luckily my friend from Montreal who speaks fluent French asked the waitress what the confusion was. Seems in my attempt to order the measly bowl of peanuts I had ordered an espresso with a drop of cream in it, what they call here, a cafe noisette because of the dark hazelnut colour of the coffee. Pretty took the coffee away in a huff. I did get my peanuts and some olives. And, when the bill came, I paid for the hazelnut coffee. I was not going to argue. What I should have said (which I now know thanks to Babel Fish) was "Je vudrais les arachides satisfont". Next time I'll skip the peanuts. I know how to order vin rouge thank god.

Merci,

Mel