France reminds me of Chicago when....

1. You eat at buffets. 

Who says only Americans go up for seconds? With an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet of freshly caught goodies right from the Mediterranean sea, you bet I'ma get my grub on. They don't say 'bon appetit' for nothing.

2. Eccentric cows take over the city. 

It wasn't until the fourth cow that I idiotically pointed to and exclaimed "they had these where I'm from!" that I realized Toulouse is now the host city for the same Cows on Parade exhibit Chicago held back in 1999. Apparently this show displaying 'interesting' works of local artists happens all over the world, yet still quite a coinkidink, dontcha think?

3. People dance.

The French may never admit it, but whether it's a synthesized "Call Me Maybe" or the man on stage trying his best to sing an incomprehensible "All of Me," American tunes still get those Europeans all jittered up.

4.  You find things that make you laugh.

Kids on leashes.  LOLz.

Things that the French Have That I Could Get Used To:

1. Eating Outside The Café from the film Amélie

I absolutely love how they make snack time an occasion rather than just sneaking Cheez-its from under your desk.  Friends, lovers and coworkers will sit for hours over a café or coca light to laugh and reminiscence... and most likely gossip, but in French it still sounds oh so romantic. 

2. Wine all day every day

And I thought I had it made with Trader Joe's. Here you'll walk into Carrefour (the European Walmart) and find every bottle of wine under 10€... and believe me, those 2€ bottles are plenty good enough for a pregame.


3.  Men on the street who are bringing sexyback

Like, seriously, dude... it's a Wednesday afternoon! But I'll admit, though never a fan of the skinny jeans, the men here sure put me to shame when it comes to lookin' fly. 

4. Feeling like I'm on the movie set for  Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

Pretty hard not to fall in love when the only thing keeping you from the sea, mountains and beautiful architecture is that patisserie up the hill that smells too good to pass up.

Meet me in the Market, it's goin' down

 

I’m sure many share my detestation of malls… that claustrophobic suffocation you feel of being jostled in every which way, or the fact that my inner teenybopper forces me to stop by Victoria Secret each time to begrudgingly stare at seducti-fied mannequins while dabbing on $20 tester lip gloss.

Yet for all the mall-hatin’ I do up in herr’, for some reason I have this weird obsession with markets. Markets upon markets upon markets, I just can’t get enough.

Markets occupy the same despicable squander as malls; packed with obnoxious sellers (often the less censored kind) and bustling shoppers (often the less bathed kind), they simply provide another means of showcasing frivolous things, only with the Made in China labels scratched off.

But OMG do I LOVE markets.

Whether it’s a bottle cap from the 1960’s or a pair of wooden clogs two sizes too big, I have this compulsive need to buy everything in sight. A picture frame made of chewing gum wrappers? Want it. The license plate of a Portuguese outlaw? Gotta have it. Heck, if ten different fruit stands sell ‘pêches fraîches,‘ you bet your piper’s poodle I’ll try them all to find ‘le plus frais.’

Perhaps it’s the ability to bargain a 2€ seashell necklace down to 1€50, or that dirt stains and rust offer a vintage sparkle, but for me at least the appeal of the marketplace is how all kinds of people, young or old, rich or poor, skinny or American, can participate in the chaotic rush. It represents the pride and joy of the everyday man, an arena where all players, not just Shakira, can shake what their mama gave them (and too often do you see desperados hustling off their recently-passed mother’s jewels).  

       The market Sunday morning in Banyuls, France, resting on the Mediterranean sea just a nose hair from Spain. 

I love the way markets look. The tents proudly display their nation’s flag, and the fruit vendors stack up their melons and berries in such an artistic way that your eyes are sucker punched by the explosion of colors.

I love how markets smell. With honeys and ciders and meats so rich, even fermented cheese samples on which flies perform coitus are too tempting to resist.

I love the way markets feel. There’s just something about walking on cement with the summer breeze pushing you along which makes the fact that that old woman carried all those ukuleles onto that table so much more nostalgic.

But most of all, I love the marketplace for the stories. Not just the tales behind the knickknacks you buy, or how you stumbled upon them. But rather, I crave the luck of eavesdropping on a story exchange between locals who live for the market, who regularly brave these bartering mosh pits just to see familiar faces. Some gossip over a parking lot collision. Others reminisce about a past summer dance.  Then there’s that one guy who retells the same damn story over and over again that each week he finds it harder to find his listeners. But he keeps coming back every Sunday. They all do, because to them, the marketplace marks the hotspot where anybody who’s anybody wants to be: the local theater for an Amish community; the discotheque for virgin study abroad students; the KEG of Evanston*.

I had the privilege of tagging alongside my beau’s grandfather on one such extravaganza, and I’m not even embarrassed to admit he has twice as many friends as I do. Tuning in on the conversations he held nonstop, even just the way he carried himself, was inspiration any writer would die for.

Too bad I couldn’t understand a word of it.

P.S. As I begin to post pictures, please refrain from judging me on my poor photography skills and instead focus in on my typos and attempts to be punny =).

* In place of 1)Keg and 2)Evanston, insert your own 1)trashy bar and 2)college town

What Smells in France

Please excuse my delayed second post; I managed to keep myself pretty occupied these past few days with some noteworthy firsts:

-  Successfully asking for directions in French, then successfully flirting to get my 115lbs of luggage to cette destination;

 

-  Training with a professional women’s soccer team; 

-  Spending the night in an emergency room next to a woman who soiled herself. 

-  Making unintentionally-sexual conversation with a stranger thanks to Google Translate

-  Testing into intermediate B1 French knowing only 2 weeks worth of Rosetta Stone and the lyrics to Lady Marmelade

But personal frivolity aside, I’m here to dish the dirt on zee culture francaise, and I must begin with the most fundamental, indispensable subject matter:dog shit.

Yes, that’s right, canine feces. Doggie dung. Piles of Big O' Poop.

It’s literally everywhere.

While I have yet to fall victim to these sidewalk landmines, I can predict with my clumsiness the inevitability of a future shoe-cleansing.

The French love their dogs; that hallmark card of the woman in a beret walking her poodle aside the Eiffel Tower clearly comes to mind. In fact, I noticed during my strolls through the Luxembourg Garden in Paris, or along the Garonne River in Toulouse, that the dogs themselves appear quite content with their quality of life. And why wouldn’t they, born into the luxury of fresh baguette heels each morning and the freedom to plant a big one wherever they so please?

This poop predicament is no trivial matter; or at least, it has put a stench on my daily routine (yes, pun intended) as someone who doesn't particularly enjoy getting smacked with fecal fragrance every corner she turns. Smells aside, constantly looking down to dodge oncoming piles has led to missed opportunities. As a photographer trying to capture a candid kiss on the Seine, or a lone traveler desiring the comfort of a friendly nod from a passerby, looking up can make all the difference.

I do not intend for this blog to turn into a diary of my 1^st world problems where I relate Adele’s lyrics to my own life. However, I must question how this idolized nation, the Romantic Capital of the World, has managed to prevent this reasonably normal, yet still kind of gross, dog-poop dilemma from tainting its image.

Why don’t the travel books discuss the lack of fecal pick-up in a country where leather boots and pumps are acceptable footwear for taking out the trash? Of course, a guide listing the best places for boat rides and cooking classes will likely outsell the one labeling heavy doo-doo hot spots. Perhaps excrement is just something not discussed, or not worthy of any online article aside from a silly girl’s blog.

Yet at the same time, coming from the ever-mocked United States to the land of hoighty-toighty, nylon-clad fashionistas, it actually feels a bit relieving to see that Europeans have some not-so tidy habits of their own. The French maintain their class and dignity while letting their dogs live a little, and that’s not all. I’ve witnessed more than one elbow on the table, mismatched socks, and a late night chug of milk… straight from the carton. These are the stolen moments, moments that contradict the image of poise so desperately maintained, that actually make me feel most at home.

In the end, dog shit is dog shit, and the day it gets on my shoe is the day I perfect my pronunciation of merde. Meanwhile, I will use what little language I've attained from Rosetta Stone to see what else ces personnes have hiding in their crepes.