French and American cultural differences aren’t too grand, but if I had to characterize one thing in particular, I would say that Americans are more germaphobic. A couple of months ago I read an article in the newspaper written by a fellow American living in France expatiating on some of his daily life experiences supporting this generalization. Ever since then, my own personal observations have been accumulating.
For example, take the good old, quintessentially French baguette.
Here’s the problem: when I buy a baguette at the supermarket, the bag that holds it only reaches a bit past the three-quarters mark, leaving the tip exposed. Certainly it’s nice to be able to see the contents of the wrapping. Yet this means that when I place it into the shopping cart and put it onto the conveyor belt to pay for it, it is inevitably vulnerable to the microbes of its surroundings. And if I am not very careful with the transport of it home in the car, it could get scrunched (crumbs in the trunk) or soggy (if it’s raining outside). To me the simple solution would be making the bag a bit longer or the bread a bit shorter.
The other day when I went food shopping, I observed a four-year-old running his fingers along the ends of the bread, touching them with his presumably grubby hands, meaning that future customers’ immune systems would unknowingly be subjected to his personal collection of bacteria and viruses. Maybe that sounds a bit harsh. Granted, no one is going to die from it, it just doesn’t seem hygienic.
Being cognizant of my dilemma, all this made a humorous experience for me when I went to the local convenience store in town the other day to pick up a baguette.
The arrangement there is a bit different: the baguettes are held in a straw basket and the bags to place them in are right next to it, so that customers can do it for themselves.
The store is a small, cramped place, and the bread is located right in front of the cash register. There was no one else in the store, and I could sense the eyes of the owner looking at me. He’s an older Frenchman, completing the archetype with a robust gray moustache that he twirls in his fingers as he waits for customers to come by the counter.
Knowing that one bag would present the aforementioned problem, I took two, sheathing one on each tip so that my baguette was completely covered. The whole time it was dead quiet, except for the crinkly rustlings of the paper wrapper as I completed my maneuver. When I turned around, the facial expression that greeted me was priceless: eyebrows raised, perplexed and quite suspicious that I was up to no good.
Clearly, I was a foreigner. But I didn’t mind so much, because I was coming home with an in-tact, clean loaf of bread for supper.
22 March 2010
Luge d'hiver
I was so excited for the Winter Olympics. But it wasn’t till just recently that I came to appreciate the grand discrepancy between watching winter sports seated on a couch as opposed to the actual practice of them.
After Christmas I visited one of Switzerland’s winter sport capitals: Grindelwald. (Doesn’t it sound like a name straight out of Harry Potter?) It’s a winter sport-lover’s paradise. Nestled among the majestic mountaintops, the center of town almost exclusively consists of assorted ski shops. But its real claim to fame? Sledding trails.
Ah, sledding, the idyllic childhood winter pastime. Growing up, any decent-sized slope could provide hours of amusement, well-nourished by bites of crispy crunchy snow, without a single thought of the chemicals or pollution it could have contained.
Little did I know that sledding in Grindelwald is an entirely different breed of the sport. There with my aunt, uncle, and cousins, we bundled up one morning in our jackets and scarves, and loaned our sleds from the hotel. They were sturdy, wood-hewn contraptions, but also really heavy, especially when I had to trudge uphill with one hitched on my shoulder. We hopped on a little train, sardine-packed with skiers, snowboarders, and fellow sledders, which slowly made the treacherously steep climb to the top of the mountain. Along the way there were snow-sprinkled evergreen forests and storybook Swiss chalets that I couldn't help but to sigh over.
Finally we made it to the summit and started the descent. I was sledding like never before, making my way through the miles-long route that winded down the mountain. I was seriously zipping around the slides and bends, feeling as though I was getting the sort of exhilaration Olympic bobsledders must experience. The only difference is that they have some expertise on what they’re doing, while as I had none. My control over the direction of the sled was not exactly well-tuned. The sled was outfitted with a strap, that when pulled may or may not turn in the direction that I was aiming for. The guy at the hotel made it seem so simple, pointing to explanatory stick-figure diagrams on the wall. To turn left, pull the strap to the right. But I was not having much luck. Half of the time I got the desired effect and the other half I was crashing into a snow bank.
At one point, I hit a bump. My bum landed in the snow, but the sled kept going, where it slid and crashed down a cliff. I had to go through knee-high snow to go get it again. And yes, there were onlookers laughing at me. I was laughing at myself.
Then at one curve I got a little too much acceleration and lost total control. Cruising down at a dangerous speed, I wanted to warn the fellow sledders around me of my impending arrival, but with people from so many different nationalities around I didn’t know which language—English? French? German?--to say “watch out!” I finally skidded to a stop, but not before nearly having a rear-ending accident into the sled of a German lady. Needless to say, she wasn’t very happy and presumably reprimanded me for not being more careful, but not knowing German I didn't understand what she said.
As I progressed downward, my comfort was likewise in decline. Head, hand, and feet warmth are the most important for well-being in cold outdoor winter conditions, and here I was, striking out on all three accounts. The problem was that I just wasn’t adequately equipped for this caliber of sledding. My boots weren’t water-tight, so ice cold moistness gradually seeped into my socks and made my toes painfully numb. I was feeling prickles, as though little knives were stabbing into them. I immediately started envisioning pictures of the pioneers who first explored Antarctica and had limbs become black with frostbite.
Perhaps even worse, I didn’t have proper ski pants, so as I sat down on my sled, sheaths of snow wedged themselves to my lower back and then slid, half-melting from my body heat to a sort of slush that made its way to my underpants. Basically, my butt felt like it was going to freeze off.
Finally, feeling good about the distance I had covered, I decided that I had had enough. Luckily there was a train going in the other direction back down the mountain. With a change of socks and a hot steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, I felt like a new person. It was only until I referenced a map that I realized I had only covered a tiny section of the overall trail. Oh well. The little section I traversed made for quite the adventure.
After Christmas I visited one of Switzerland’s winter sport capitals: Grindelwald. (Doesn’t it sound like a name straight out of Harry Potter?) It’s a winter sport-lover’s paradise. Nestled among the majestic mountaintops, the center of town almost exclusively consists of assorted ski shops. But its real claim to fame? Sledding trails.
Ah, sledding, the idyllic childhood winter pastime. Growing up, any decent-sized slope could provide hours of amusement, well-nourished by bites of crispy crunchy snow, without a single thought of the chemicals or pollution it could have contained.
Little did I know that sledding in Grindelwald is an entirely different breed of the sport. There with my aunt, uncle, and cousins, we bundled up one morning in our jackets and scarves, and loaned our sleds from the hotel. They were sturdy, wood-hewn contraptions, but also really heavy, especially when I had to trudge uphill with one hitched on my shoulder. We hopped on a little train, sardine-packed with skiers, snowboarders, and fellow sledders, which slowly made the treacherously steep climb to the top of the mountain. Along the way there were snow-sprinkled evergreen forests and storybook Swiss chalets that I couldn't help but to sigh over.
Finally we made it to the summit and started the descent. I was sledding like never before, making my way through the miles-long route that winded down the mountain. I was seriously zipping around the slides and bends, feeling as though I was getting the sort of exhilaration Olympic bobsledders must experience. The only difference is that they have some expertise on what they’re doing, while as I had none. My control over the direction of the sled was not exactly well-tuned. The sled was outfitted with a strap, that when pulled may or may not turn in the direction that I was aiming for. The guy at the hotel made it seem so simple, pointing to explanatory stick-figure diagrams on the wall. To turn left, pull the strap to the right. But I was not having much luck. Half of the time I got the desired effect and the other half I was crashing into a snow bank.
At one point, I hit a bump. My bum landed in the snow, but the sled kept going, where it slid and crashed down a cliff. I had to go through knee-high snow to go get it again. And yes, there were onlookers laughing at me. I was laughing at myself.
Then at one curve I got a little too much acceleration and lost total control. Cruising down at a dangerous speed, I wanted to warn the fellow sledders around me of my impending arrival, but with people from so many different nationalities around I didn’t know which language—English? French? German?--to say “watch out!” I finally skidded to a stop, but not before nearly having a rear-ending accident into the sled of a German lady. Needless to say, she wasn’t very happy and presumably reprimanded me for not being more careful, but not knowing German I didn't understand what she said.
As I progressed downward, my comfort was likewise in decline. Head, hand, and feet warmth are the most important for well-being in cold outdoor winter conditions, and here I was, striking out on all three accounts. The problem was that I just wasn’t adequately equipped for this caliber of sledding. My boots weren’t water-tight, so ice cold moistness gradually seeped into my socks and made my toes painfully numb. I was feeling prickles, as though little knives were stabbing into them. I immediately started envisioning pictures of the pioneers who first explored Antarctica and had limbs become black with frostbite.
Perhaps even worse, I didn’t have proper ski pants, so as I sat down on my sled, sheaths of snow wedged themselves to my lower back and then slid, half-melting from my body heat to a sort of slush that made its way to my underpants. Basically, my butt felt like it was going to freeze off.
Finally, feeling good about the distance I had covered, I decided that I had had enough. Luckily there was a train going in the other direction back down the mountain. With a change of socks and a hot steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, I felt like a new person. It was only until I referenced a map that I realized I had only covered a tiny section of the overall trail. Oh well. The little section I traversed made for quite the adventure.
Foodsick
For me to be complaining about the food here in France is pretty undeserved, because true to its reputation, French cuisine is delicious. And it certainly helps that my host mom S is an excellent cook. I am amazed how quickly she can whip up béchamel sauce without referencing the recipe, or cook a steak to medium-rare perfection. And yet…I really miss the food back home, for the fact that it just isn’t the same.
In France, they have some sort of foods so right. Bread, for example. What would be considered “gourmet” or “artisan” bread in the US can be bought at a gas station in France.
But like they say, you can’t win ’em all. The French fail miserably on a suitable sandwich bread. Not the just-baked fresh kind, but the one you find on supermarket shelves, something with density and fortitude when you want something that holds all the innards inside.
The French don’t seem so keen on the concept of a sandwich in general. For me it’s a cultural demarcation. The sandwich is reflective of the American, eat-on-the-run lifestyle. In US schools children get a half-hour to eat their lunch; in France the kids get two hours.
It’s not that the French don’t eat all the ingredients of a sandwich, it’s that they eat everything separately. Sandwiches are convenient and easily portable. You get everything in a single bite—meat, cheese, vegetable, bread.
Another food item that is hard to come by in France is peanut butter, which is why I was so ecstatic when my parents mailed me some jars for my birthday. Three months without peanut butter? You probably don’t think it would be a big deal. Oh but it was. I tried to save it, resisted as long as I could from popping open the jar. But finally at long last when I did, a couple of weeks later, it was the most incredibly satisfying experience. Nothing beats the tactile and gustatory experience of the smooth rich blend of creaminess and crunchiness, sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Shortly afterwards, I mentioned a “PBJ” in conversation with the girls, and saw a look of confusion cross over their faces. They didn’t know what it was. As I explained, they were absolutely epoustouflées by the concept, while I was astonished that they had never tasted my childhood staple of nourishment. Ar (the oldest girl) is seriously disgusted by the idea of sandwiches, while the younger girl agreed to try her very first one if I were to make it for her. Her first bite was cautious and she proclaimed it bizarre, but by the end, I observed her from the corner of my eye, munching and chomping away contentedly on her last bits of crusts.
In France, they have some sort of foods so right. Bread, for example. What would be considered “gourmet” or “artisan” bread in the US can be bought at a gas station in France.
But like they say, you can’t win ’em all. The French fail miserably on a suitable sandwich bread. Not the just-baked fresh kind, but the one you find on supermarket shelves, something with density and fortitude when you want something that holds all the innards inside.
The French don’t seem so keen on the concept of a sandwich in general. For me it’s a cultural demarcation. The sandwich is reflective of the American, eat-on-the-run lifestyle. In US schools children get a half-hour to eat their lunch; in France the kids get two hours.
It’s not that the French don’t eat all the ingredients of a sandwich, it’s that they eat everything separately. Sandwiches are convenient and easily portable. You get everything in a single bite—meat, cheese, vegetable, bread.
Another food item that is hard to come by in France is peanut butter, which is why I was so ecstatic when my parents mailed me some jars for my birthday. Three months without peanut butter? You probably don’t think it would be a big deal. Oh but it was. I tried to save it, resisted as long as I could from popping open the jar. But finally at long last when I did, a couple of weeks later, it was the most incredibly satisfying experience. Nothing beats the tactile and gustatory experience of the smooth rich blend of creaminess and crunchiness, sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Shortly afterwards, I mentioned a “PBJ” in conversation with the girls, and saw a look of confusion cross over their faces. They didn’t know what it was. As I explained, they were absolutely epoustouflées by the concept, while I was astonished that they had never tasted my childhood staple of nourishment. Ar (the oldest girl) is seriously disgusted by the idea of sandwiches, while the younger girl agreed to try her very first one if I were to make it for her. Her first bite was cautious and she proclaimed it bizarre, but by the end, I observed her from the corner of my eye, munching and chomping away contentedly on her last bits of crusts.
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