Romania Part 1: hubba-hubba, Bucharest!

Let me tell you a few things about Romania.

To Americans, Romanians wear sparkly leotards and spread eagle on bars and balance beams. To other Europeans, however, Romanians often get a bad rep for living a gypsy lifestyle, traveling around begging and scamming to avoid any real work. While truth beholds that some of these people scam, that some beg, that a few do win Olympic medals, I've had the good fortune of seeing another side of this country and its people that instead involves arched eyebrows, enchanted castles and food deals that could send Subway out of business.

Romania is home to two important people: 1) Dracula, allowing me to shrill "I've come to suck your blood!" around every corner, and 2) my friend Alla, giving me someone to hiss it at. I met Alla last year in my French class, though from day one we've communicated in English because a) my French sucks and b) her English itself makes for conversation. Like many other Europeans I've met, she learned to perfect her Anglais via various languages sources such as rap videos on MTV, beauty tutorials on YouTube and streaming reruns of House and Prison Break. I am always so impressed when phrases like 'riding dirty' or 'it's not Lupus' flow naturally in her speech, as well as her unfathomable expertise on American pop culture (what exactly IS a hollaback girl, I dared to ask her during our trip).

Alla picks me up from the airport and we bus through Bucharest, during which I begin asking the millions of questions building up in my head such as 'what's with the high-heelin' hoochies with magna-arched eyebrows?' 'Where are the vampires?' 'When can we eat?' (She answers the first by explaining a particular fashion style that certain women portray called pitzipoanks, which translates to sluts. She rolls her eyes for the other two).

Romania introduces me to Eastern European territory, and en route to the city center I cannot help but notice the marks of communism (ha, get it?!) still affluent, or rather destitute, in the passing buildings. While the term 'Communist architecture' came up before during a tour of Berlin, here it still stands without telling. Tall, grey, rigid structures efficiently

The big bad Palace of the Romanian Parliament

built to hold a warehouse of people, minus any glamour or aesthetic appeal whatsoever. The lack of distinguishable variety or color set a dull, rather weary ambiance that would make a perfect shooting location for the Are you Afraid of the Dark? series. At this point I can't tell if vampire jokes are appropriate or not, but decide to bite Alla's shoulder anyways.
  
Downtown Bucharest itself strikes a stark contrast to the
outside boroughs, the influences of Roman culture highly prevalent in the large, elegant structures built with columns, domes and aristocratic statues. The majority of these fabulous edifices house the only institutions that can afford them, banks, though some host less fangy sites such as the excellent National Museum of Art and the Peasant Museum. And if you really want to see a hunk of a building, head over to the Palace of the Romanian Parliament. Stare deeply at the world's heaviest building (literally!), and I dare you NOT to make comparisons to the evil plottings a happenin' in the Ministry of Magic.  


As any European city, a visit through the major sites includes at least one church, though unlike the excessive glitz of the Catholic churches found elsewhere, the Orthodox sanctuaries here have a more modest appearance. "To be Romanian is to be Orthodox," explains Alla as she and every other passerby crosses themselves in front of the building whether or not they go inside. Every church has the same 3-part structure (a writer's

Romanian Monastery

dream!): a small, covered section up front for priests, a larger middle area where women stand behind the men and children, and finally a small boxed area in back for those women 'infected with the blood of sin,' aka those on 'that time of the month' (what better way to tell the fellers' they ain't gettin any tonight!). While this sexist division is unlikely still practiced anywhere except for maybe the Romanian boonies, the Rosa Parks in me proudly remains up front to enjoy the chants of the choir singers (The WHAT in me? Please ignore that last part). 


I forgot to mention the best part: Romania = CHEAP. Hold on to y'er hats n' glasses, cuz the prices here will blow yee away! At the patiseries above every subway station, hot flaky pastries and soft pretzels await your grumbling bellies for 1-2 lei a pop, equivalent to about 35cents (and believe me, you'll be stuffed after three!). The two nights

sărmăluţe

in a local boarding house cost us each 3€/night, though we had to pay an extra 5cents for toilet paper. We dined at the famous  Caru' cu Bere (Beer Carriage), gorging ourselves on the Romanian specialty sărmăluţe (minced meat rolled in wine leaves served with polenta and sour cream), and finishing off with a papanasi each (monster donuts of sweet cheese and cream) all for less than 20€. We danced the night away on $3 cocktails at bars where everyone resembled Victor Krum and his classmates at Durmstrang Academy (okay, enough with the Potter references!) and finished the night with an 11 lei taxi ride home, costing less than the fare to just get in a cab in Chicago. 

In my short time in Bucharest, I managed to learn about the country's gold mining politics and check off Protest for a Cause in Romania off my Things to Do Before I DIE list. Still, two days felt excruciatingly short. Yet I am ever the more antsy pantsy for the second half on my Romanian adventure to the dungeons and dragons of the man who, wait for it.. wait for it... will "come to suck your BLOOD!"

Where Do Milano Cookies Come From?*

The next few posts will venture away from French fry land and instead chronicle my exciting trip east, my first time in Eastern Europe. Three snaps for me for exploring 5 cities in 4 countries, taking a total of 5 planes, 3 regional trains, 2 coach buses and 10 nights in hostels all for 300 euros (this, of course, not including spending money and FOOD costs, which with me sadly doubles it).

First stop, mainly for the convenient airport layover... Milan. Though less than 20 hours weakens my chances of meeting my lover boy KaKa (you hear me, AC Milan fans!), I still can steal a glimpse at the European fashion mecca.

Alright. Milan.

It's pouring. Damn. While waiting for the rain to cut it out, I make my way through the central train station to get the first thing on the agenda... Gelato. Shivering yet high on creamy swirls of pistachio and chocolate, I parooze through the many clothing stores, imagining how I'd look in this leather jacket or that fur hat. Able to afford none of it, I decide to go to my hostel. My worries about the pitter patter quickly vanish the moment I step out when hundreds of umbrellas dangle in my face. Of any country I've visited, Italy wins the prize for most street peddlers selling cheap crap. Clutching umbrellas, trinkets, puddy, you name it, they await their prey at touristy spots and shout at you in what they believe to be your mother tongue. Very Nice Price! Buen Precio! Günstigen Preis! I settle on a 5€ one (the next guy was selling them for 4€... drats!)

The woman at the hostel resembling Janice from Friends tells me the room "no finish." I am quite familiar with this Italian tardiness; while other Europeans may apologize for the delay, she simply shrugs her shoulders as to say 'well what did you expect?' Another fun fact: Italians love surprises, the kind that make you pay more. The hostel I booked online said 15€, but with adding in the 'tourist tax' plus the extra 3€ for linen, the price no longer feels so right. Add to this the pleasant surprise of finding two French lesbians spooning in the bed that should be mine (why can't I ever escape the French?!) and I understand the establishment's mere 54% rating on hostelbookers.com.           

Doumo, the Magnificent!

With no city maps available (Janice did kindly offer one of her cigarettes as consolation), I creepily followed other tourists to get to the famous Doumo. A master piece of a church, with an incredible view of the city from the roof (sadly it had already closed for the night). More street sellers do their thang in the church's piazza, though this time more creatively than umbrellas... They place corn kernels in the hands of ignorant tourists so pigeons flock AT them, resting on their shoulders and stabbing at their hands and feet. In return for this bird rape, they expect a 5€ bill. Uh... No thank you.

By this point the rain is pouring so hard that I must settle for a cafe panini rather than continue on to an aperitivo that offers complimentary buffets with a cocktail purchase. But don't get me wrong, when I say 'settled' on a panini, I mean a mouth-watering concoction of grilled zucchini, ricotta cheese and prosciutto in a crispy flatbread followed by a second helping of gelato (what, it was only 2€... very nice price!). I take the underground back to the hostel and chit chat about the Big Bang Theory with Janice before heading to my room (thankfully the French amoureux have gone out for the night).

I leave around 8 the next morning to head to the Bergamo airport (the French girls have yet to return). I assumed going to the gate would be easy breezy (aside from layering on all my packed clothes to meet the WizzAir cabin baggage restrictions). Turns out to be the most gruesome passport questioning to date. True, my little blue book does resemble a first year teacher's lesson plans, with visas and stamps and security check stickers haphazardly scattered throughout. Yet i naively assumed that the perched eagle and lines "We The People" on the first page automatically allowed me entry wherever I so pleased, no questions asked (isn't that like the 5th amendment or something?). Yet for 3 whole minutes the border control officer grilled me in an aggressive Italian accent "Where you come from? Why you go to Romania? Where you stay? How long? Why you here? You work? What you do? Why these days? I don't see entry stamp. Why you here?" What a relief to finally get the stamp. I cannot even imagine the stress of those coming from other countries who must face a thousand times the scrutiny every time they try to visit Europe or the U.S., let alone leave their own country.

My pits fuming from both the interrogation and the 4 layers of shirts, I now await my plane, fanning myself with my ticket and imagining what questioning I'll face at my next destination: Romania.




*Milano Cookies are an American invention by Pepperidge Farms in an attempt to sound posh. It's the taste that counts, right?

Waiting Tables, Restaurants, and Cigarettes: A Sonata in 3 Parts

A. Waiting Tables

If you or a friend has ever worked in the restaurant/hospitality business, you know how much it sucks when people don`t leave a deserving tip (or so I`ve heard, speaking as that stingy asian who never gives a cent above 15%). Serving tables is tough work in the US! But consider this: rather than succumbing to displaying your yonkers or smiling `til your jaw snaps, I've found a simpler solution to earn your fair pay... work as a waitress/waiter in France!

The advantages of waiting tables in a bistro abroad far outweigh whatever plane costs and visa issues you may encounter if seriously pursuing this plan. See for yourself:

The Perks of Waitressing in France

Can I have some cheese with that wine?

1) Get paid an hourly wage. And often not a bad one, either. Europe does not share the same tipping culture as America, so your paycheck will surmount to the same whether or not you bend & snap. And often times customers, mainly men who don't like jingly change in their pockets, still leave tips anyway (and believe me, each 2euro coin left on the table  really adds up!) Not to mention that waiters get the same health benefits as anyone else, which I'll explain in a future post.

2) Work stress-free. Knowing that the paycheck stays the same whether you serve 25 tables a night or only 3, waiters can work at their own, leisurely pace. Would you like a refill, sir? Let me bring it to you in 10 minutes. À toute suite!

3) Work outside. Pretty much all cafés and many restaurants have an outside terrace, so work that tan while you work that platter!

4) No doggy bags. Taking home unfinished food is a big non non in France, which means no fuss over finding the right sized-boxes and scooping up half-eaten lasagna. Just dump those plates straight in the bin!

As you can see, the lifestyle of waiters in France quite closely resembles that of the rich & famous (or at least according to Good Charlotte). But as all good things must come to an end, the pleasures of working in restaurants do not quite cross over to the people who eat at them.

B. Eating at Restaurants

What a Happy Waiting Staff Means for Everyone Else

(aka not good news)

1) Food is Ex-Pen-Sive! Good luck finding somewhere to eat under 25 euros (and don't forget the extra charges they force you to pay for bread and, don't scream, H20.) Plus, one still feels obligated to tip anyway after watching the waitress bring and clear away plates for two hours, so a night out ends up costing half a month's paycheck.

2) Service is a zero. On the plus side, no one gets annoyed at the interrupting waiter offering more water every 5 minutes. On the negative, if you actually need that refill, you're screwed. In France, waitresses take their sweet-ass time. They could care less if you can't read the menu or if your vegetarian sister accidentally received the salade de gesiers (duck gizzards) rather than de Roquefort (blue cheese). If they're on one of a dozen smoke breaks, she's gonna have to wait.

3) Eat Outside. A good thing all around, as long as you don't mind the smell of smoke or dog poo.

4) No doggy bags. Those who've had the pleasure of dining at Maggiano's can empathize. Imagine my utter heartbreak of discovering the cruel, sadistic custom in France of not bringing home leftovers. Down right Anarchy!! Why, my family only eats out for the soul joy of finding Styrofoam box presents in the fridge the next evening. Yet according to the French, leftovers connote weakness (or more likely a lack of sophistication). You either suck it up and finish your plate, or let those crispy 8 euro-each frog legs go to waste. Quite a sad dilemma, considering how delicious the food tastes yet how badly you've resisted overeating in order to fit in those Parisian skinny jeans.

As you can see, eating out in France quite closely resembles paying for the mortgage of a house that you can't afford. Suddenly a whopper doesn't sound all that bad.

C. Cigarettes

I will conclude this debate between feeder and eater with a seemingly unrelated yet completely intertwined topic.... cigarettes. Perhaps I'm paranoid of second-hand smoke, or maybe the fumes of the dude puffing à côté de moi have gotten to my brain and keyboard, but something must be said (and in my opinion, done) about the smoking habits here. The average Francophone youth cannot even sit for one meal without getting up twice for a drag. Each time I arrive to soccer practice, I squint my eyes (more than naturally) to find the entrance gate behind the clouds of smoke dispersed by fellow teammates. And don't even bother wearing perfume when you sortir... every bar forces on you a free trial of their latest line, tabacco spice. I'm not saying all Americans learned their lessons back in Junior High school D.A.R.E. class, but it's as if people are not even aware of any possible health risks of the reef.

 CODA
Anyone who understand music knows that the coda ties back together  the seemingly incongruent parts A, B, and C* (*this is not true). But this time, I'll leave it up to you to draw the connections, as I literally cannot sit at this café for a minute longer. My advice? Those coming to frenchy-land can choose one of three possible paths:

1) Work as a waitress in France, have a good life, smoke cigarettes;
2) Eat at a French restaurant, go broke with no leftovers to show for it, smoke cigarettes instead; or
3) Live off baguettes and cheese from the supermarché…. and just don't smoke cigarettes.

(answer in bold)

A La Mode: Eating the French Way

As we déjeuner to rabbit pâté aside steaming lamb chops and

deliciously brewed haricots blancs, (white beans), the boyfriend's grandfather shakes his head in utmost embarrassment. 

"Like animals we are, eating this way. But with lamb chops.. What can we do?" (This, all in French of course). 

He was referring to the fact that rather than eating properly, using forks and knives, he had to grab the lamb bone with his fingers and directly eat the meat, dare I say, with his bare hands!

"At least we do not have company," la grand-mère sighs with relief.

This is a culture that uses utensils for literally everything: pizza with fork and knife; French fries by means of fork and knife; ice cream in a cone... eaten with a spoon no doubt. Only slobs bite straight into a slice of melon; we all know it's more practical to first slice off the skin, then delicately cut it into bite size portions to then nibble with silverware. And I hate to be obvious, but coke can NEVER be consumed straight from the can... that's what tall glassware was created for, you unsophisticated schmucks!

Not to mention the extensiveness of table assembly when it comes to platter. A family of three needs to run the dishwasher after every meal in order to keep up with proper feasting etiquette. A mini glass for l'aperitif (a pre-meal shot of booze), alongside two glasses, one for wine, the other for water (and possibly a third if you're toasting with champagne). A bowl for soup, a plate for les éntres (appetizers) and salads, a separate for the plat (the meal) plus another for dessert. There is the cuillère de soupe (soup spoon) followed by the salad fork, the meal fork, the knife to cut the steak, the knife to slice the cheese, a spoon for dessert, and finally a cuillère de café to stir the sugar in your espresso shot. This is on top of the casserole dishes and salad bowls and bread baskets and serving spoons and pots and pans placed a center to dish out family style. It is one individual's role to get up and clear each set of plates and utensils while the others sit around and emerse in a two hour occasion of palatable pleasantries. Followed by a well-deserved two hour nap.

Believe me, adapting to these strenuous table manners is no easy task, especially when coming from a KFC-ridden suburb best known for having a Medieval Times. Then again, once you've grown accustomed to slicing up fries into cute little pieces, even a rendezvous to Mickey D's becomes a grandiose affair.

CAKE!!!!

So.... cakes.

 

Yes cakes, not just because it’s my birthday, which gives me the right to be eating it at 8:30am while compiling a ‘meaningful’ blog post to make up for the last 3 dry months on this page. But truthfully, cake is an essential part of cultures around the world, celebrating all occasions in ranging flavors to satisfyingly comfort every sweet tooth and emotion. Plus, who could say no to a slice of butter and sugar in sponge-form, garbed in orange zest cream cheese frosting?

Good, now I have the attention of your clammy tongues salivating for glucosic goodies. Let’s examine the cake traditions of France, where boulangeries and patisseries equate the American Walgreens by claiming every street corner. If each morning is a chocolate croissant for a ‘mmm-mmm’ buttery breakfast, one can’t even begin to fathom how heavenly an actual ‘dessert’ would be. And for the most part, I’ll admit, they do not disappoint. Staying on topic, here’s a mini bibliography of some of the cakes I’ve had the palatable pleasure of tasting this past month:

1.     Bûche de Noël

What it means: Christmas log  

What it looks like: Basically a log cake that looks very much like a log, the cheaper ones a turd, sprinkled with powdered sugar and random plastic evergreens.  Cut it open to find creamy custard and sponge cake in swirls of psychedelic love. 
What it tastes like: AWESOME.

Tradition: You eat it on Christmas. Duh.
Thoughts: Don’t be disappointed by the puniness of these sticks… with all that cream and butter, one slice’ll get your heart pumpin’.
2.     Galette des Rois

What it means: Cake of Kings

What it looks like: Kind of like a big ass flaky omelette. With crusty white almond paste inside.
What it taste like: Wayyy better than that description. 
Tradition: To celebrate King’s Day, January 6^th. Somewhere inside this bad boy is a little feve, or figurine, and who ever is lucky enough to break their teeth biting it gets to wear a BK crown for the day.
Thoughts: I got the crown this year. Well worth the toothache.
3.      Couronne Briochée 
What it means: Crown bread thingy
What it looks like: A donut on steroids, decorated with fruit-cake tackiness.
What it tastes like: A donut on steroids.
Tradition: Also for Kings Day. Basically, the inventor of the cake above copyrighted the cooler name, so to compete, the dude from this bakery decided to make his look like a crown.
Thoughts: where’s the cream filling?

French cakes are, in essence, three things: 1. Decorative elements of religious or traditional celebrations; 2. Rich, but not overly sweet, with more or less natural flavors and simplistic decorations; 3. Filled with butter.

So enough with the Gordon Ramsay commentary… what’s the point of all this cake talk? Well, as satiating as these francophone delicacies might be, there still comes a day in every person’s living abroad experience where one reaches a deep revelation: where the hell is my red velvet cake?!

If you think sincerely about it, (which I do), my American favorite goes against everything French: 1) It’s anything but natural, obnoxiously fire-engine red with the main ingredients being shortening and buttermilk; 2) It’s excessive, a minimum of 3 layers glued together by thick cream cheese frosting to further glaze the already sugar infused-monster; and 3) It’s 100% American, featured on every food network show, in every trendy cupcake salon, and in many of my family photos from college, where one simple slice brought to my dorm room could magically disintegrate all the stress from midterm exams. I guess in a way, what makes a cake so great is not just the taste, but rather the occasion to share it with others. If I were to be sentimental about it (which I am), cake is about the celebratory experience as a whole, instead of the sum of its parts (which, if added up, equals too many hours at the gym).  

So, in respect to both new favorites and old time classics, and in honor of my 23^rd anniversary of birth, I’ve decided to indulge in both: a briochée for breakfast, homemade velvet for tonight, and maybe, upon my afternoon stroll past the corner patisserie, another sugary surprise. Just because it’s my birthday.

On French Fashion

To preface, the most feminine article of clothing owned by the girl writing this is probably a neon pink sports bra purchased at Sports Authority. While I may know the dimensions of the latest Adidas cleat, if you ask me about Dolce and Gabbana products I’ll likely start listing ice cream flavors. But considering I’m residing in the country that produces the perfume samples you snatch from magazines in line at Walgreens, and the brands your fake purses try so hard to emulate, I guess it’s accurate to say I’m trying to add a little more flair than just deodorant to my daily morning routine.

It’s pretty evident that people here take care to look ‘put together’ upon leaving the security of their homes. No, no one struts 8-inch stilettos with UFO-shaped hats and army-patterned swimwear… Tyra, PLEASE. But you won’t see the typical American state-school fashion of grey sweatpants topped with a grey hoodie and a grey headband slicking back a ponytail (or a purple headband if you’re feelin’ frisky).

As someone with the life philosophy of “comfort first,” I’ll admit I did feel a bit abashed when disgracefully pairing Old Navy flip-flops with black leggings on my first day of class (brown thongs at that!) Ever since, I’ve determined to understand what exactly makes the French so gosh-darn fashionable.

It only took about a week of creepin’ for the Nancy Drew in me to compile a list of essential facts about la mode francophone. Here is just the beginning of my research:

1.     All articles of clothing suitable for daywear must have collars and cuffs (i.e. dress-shirts, blazers). Everything else is considered improper, scandalous and unfit for public (t-shirts for the bedroom ONLY!)

2.     Acceptable colors to wear include: black, navy blue and black.

3.     All other colors can only be displayed if paired with one of the colors above.

4.     Did you forget your Longchamp purse?

5.     If you’re wearing running shoes… you might as well run back to America.

A friend offered advice on putting together a tolerable outfit: the great rule of three. That means no more than three colors, no more than three accessories, and definitely no more than three sprays of Miss Dior perfume no matter how badly you want to be like Natalie Portman on those sexy billboards.  

Upon hearing this insight, the answer to French fashion suddenly dawned on me: simplicity.  AKA to look good… stick to the basics. The words ‘chic,’ ‘modish’ and ‘classy’ are all just fancy ways of saying, “avoid looking tacky.”

I peered around me with epiphanic excitement, nodding at each individual beside me who supported my theory: blue jeans, black flats, black blazer, the occasional red sweater (oh wait, that’s just the poodles).

But understanding this philosophy of elegant apparel has not convinced me to fully convert.  Yes, I think it’s pretty impressive that my language teacher can pull off glamorous in grey pants and a grey cardigan, or that you will never spot a French male whose shoes and belt color don’t match. But at the same time it feels a bit like Toby McGuire in Pleasantville, devoid of color and any wildness (or is that Toby in every movie?). I fear that if I leave the house wearing my favorite color yellow paired with (would I dare?!) green khakis, I may be flogged in the middle of the town square. Or even deported, if caught with my hello kitty belt.

In conclusion, I’ve been trying this whole 'limit to three' rule (for clothing only, not food) while maintaining a bit of ‘Ashley’ in my daily look, whether that be pigtails, my Nike knapsack or a chocolate stain on my pants. And you know what? I think it’s working, because my mother (whose opinion matters most) told me over skype that I didn’t need to be eating all those macaron cookies just to look French, that I’m fine (and better off) just the way I am.

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.