Petit Nicolas

Have you ever heard of Petit Nicolas?















Image credit: http://www.iconovox.com/blog/2009/03/06/le-petit-nicolas-de-sempe-et-goscinny-exposition-hotel-de-ville-de-paris/

They are a series of French classic children’s stories. Basically, all of the kids here know them and love them and read them all the time.

I got acquainted with them before I got to France, when we read them in my high school French classes. We would put on class skits based on the stories, or carefully note the distinction between l’imparfait and le passé composé verb tenses. They are really cute. Each tale tells the misadventure of a little boy, Nicolas, along with his gang of buddies at school. Each character has his own personality. There is Agnan, the chouchou (teacher’s pet) and Alceste, who unfailingly has some food in hand to eat, and Eudes, who always wants to get in a fight. All of them are loveable. And they always manage to get into trouble before getting out of it.

When I heard they were making a movie based on the books, I got super excited. But as is always the case with film adaptations, I worried that the authenticity would be compromised and that the charm of the books wouldn’t be translated to the big screen, etc, etc.

Thankfully all these worries amounted to nothing, when I finally got to see it in the movie theatre one weekend with the girls. The set-up of the film is clever, as the essential outline of the film is based on Nicolas’s fear that his maman is pregnant and that he is therefore going to have a little brother soon. But other anecdotes from the stories are weaved into the plot. The total effect is super funny, cute, and heart-warming.

Here’s the link to the movie trailer (in French, no English version to be found):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5mquUT7jCI

Fevrier!

My Mom and younger cousin Meghan came to visit me in February, and we decided to embark on a grand European adventure to visit our ancestors’ roots in the Naples region, explore the ruins of Pompeii, and see some of the gorgeous Amalfi coast.




















Our flight was to and from Naples. Having a long history with the Mafia, it’s a tough city. But of course it is only there that you can get an actual Neapolitan pizza. Flat-crust pizza perfection, crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside, grace to the high temperature fire oven it’s cooked in.

Our attainment of that pizza, (ie, the ordering process at the restaurant) turned out to be quite an adventure in itself. We went to a real neighborhood pizzeria rather than a tourist joint, meaning that none of the people there spoke English. And unfortunately our knowledge of Italian doesn’t extend much beyond Grazie (as much Italian I speak in my dreams). So we communicated our words rather telegraphically, channeling our inner Italian with lots of hand gesturing, and threw in plenty of smiles in between. Our waitress was considerably less amused. But how else would we have gotten to taste some foods we had never heard of before? We were offered something as an appetizer, and we weren’t sure exactly what it was, but we said yes (si!!) anyways, and got a delicious fried potato and cheese concoction.

An hour-long ferry ride from Mount Vesuvius and we landed on the island of Capri. The geography of the island is gorgeous—sheer rock cliffs, on which all of the conglomerations of houses and buildings have been built.

The island’s public transport system consists of a fleet of mini orange buses, small but sturdy, designed for climbing the narrow, windy inclines of the island. When our bus finally came, it was already extremely crowded with people, and despite our cumbersome luggage, we decided to squish inside. Little did we know that as the bus climbed up the island, it made stops to let even more people on. I kept thinking to myself that there was no way that a single more person could possibly fit, and then somehow, miraculously, there would be three more new arrivals.

Oh but luckily I had a spot next to a window, so I could see as the bus made its hairpin turns that there was only a skimpy medal fence between the road and the blue ocean, a couple hundred feet down below the ragged rock cliffs.

Our arrival was timely—the day after Carnival—so when we stepped off the bus (I was feeling relieved after the nausea and claustrophobia), we were greeted instantly with a celebratory party vibe, as there were lively bits of multi-colored paper confetti everywhere on the streets.

This is a bad picture, but you can see the little dots of confetti on the side of the road, and down below a bit of the orange and lemon trees that grow all over the island.

Native Capri citizens’ transport of choice, if not the bright orange buses, are mini pick-up trucks, well-suited for the island’s narrow corners. Walking along the sidewalks, you can the purrs and growls of the motors as they pass by.

We got super lucky with the hotel where we stayed. Not only was it charming, but upon check-in we discovered that we were staying in the same exact room where Queen Vittoria of Sweden had stayed many many years ago. Even though I had never heard of her before, it felt historical to know that the room had previously been occupied by royalty.

The Italians’ faithfulness to the gospel of fresh food is legendary. In this regard we were not disappointed, as we read a small note at the bottom of our menu for dinner that night that we would be “told preventatively” if any of the fish had the “unfortunate circumstance” of having been frozen, as the English had been interestingly translated from the Italian.

Later, on our walk back from the restaurant, we stopped at a convenience store and bought a package of confetti for ourselves, throwing it up in the air and celebrating la dolce vita as we walked along Capri’s narrow streets.

After Italy, we made a stop to PARIS, the city of light…

Of course our trip would have been incomplete without a visit to the Eiffel Tower. I’m proud to say we got a good glutteal workout and mounted it by foot, staircase after staircase, pausing every once in a while to admire the view, catch our breath, and/or read the historical information posted.

It was cold and windy at the top, but the sight of Paris’s rooftops was nothing short of éblouissant.

Then we warmed ourselves up with some very delicious food, at the sort of French café that I had always expected to find in Paris. I had pumpkin cream soup that was just as good as it sounds, accompanied by a salad with chèvre (goat cheese) melted on top.

Now introducing a guest writer…my Mom! as she recounts the rest of our day:

We had a lovely early evening walk to Notre Dame across the Seine. Notre Dame was very dramatic at night - the gargoyles seemed to be leaping from the cathedral as we looked above us from the street.

We watched a street performer twirl a stick lit with fire at both ends. We made like tourists and bought postcards.

Meghan needed to use la toilette. Luckily there was one of the futuristic contraptions that dot the streets of Paris. A woman emerged from its sliding door and Meghan entered. Before it could close, the woman explained that it would self-clean. Meghan jumped out. The door closed. We laughed as we heard water sloshing and ultraviolet lights destroying all germs. The doors reopened and Meghan entered again to relieve herself.

Quelle experience!

More Americanisms

Going to the supermarket in France, I am tickled whenever I see a food product explicitly labeled “AMERICAN” because prior to coming here, I had seen it as ordinary and absolutely normal. But for the French, of course, it is something particular to America.

What American food products make it over to France? Let’s see, there are sweet potatoes and peanuts from the South, grapefruit from Florida, and cheddar cheese from Wisconsin.

Chocolate fudge brownie and cake mixes, too. But if you want the real deal, that is, imported Betty Crocker, you have to be prepared to pay dearly for it.

Price tag: 7 euros (over 9 US dollars) per box!

But I discovered what I think to be the most iconic American food item during the last French class I had before Christmas vacation.

We had a little potluck holiday party, where everyone brought a dish. Indeed, as the people in my class come from all over the world, it turned out to be a multicultural affair. Everyone brought something from their country of origin: cookies, bread, pastries, crackers, and cakes from Russia, Spain, Germany, Romania, Poland, and Brazil…and plus the most amazing coffee from Costa Rica.

What did I bring? Well, I wasn’t even aiming to bring something particularly American. I was just thinking they were quick and easy to make, and hoping that they would be enjoyed by all.

When I unveiled the aluminum foil cover from the plate, my teacher let out a big gasp. “Biscuits americains!” she proclaimed excitedly. What were they? Homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I was surprised that they were such a novelty for everyone, but perhaps I should have guessed it when I had to fabricate the chocolate chunks myself, breaking up little pieces from a candy bar, because I couldn’t find a bag of chocolate chips anywhere.

Upon reflection, it is suitable that I made them, given that I hail from their place of place of birth. Good old Toll House cookies. It makes me proud to be from Massachusetts!

….I love how I am learning more about the culture and cuisine of my country being apart from it than I did when I was living in it!

Barcelona

My weekend trip to Barcelona was extremely well-timed. By the end of January, I didn’t want to bundle up any longer with hat, scarf, and mittens, and I didn’t want to see any more ice or snow. An hour-long airplane ride and I went from arctic tundra to a sparkling, diamond-flecked ocean, complete with palm trees, sunshine, bright blue sky, and a Mediterranean sea salt breeze. Just what I needed!

On Barcelona’s sycamore-lined boulevard Las Ramblas, there are always a daily assortment of human statues—that is, people who dress up in crazy, elaborate costumes and then stay perfectly still for hours while people walk by. Pretty cool, but I couldn’t help but to think how uncomfortable they must get after awhile!


Fruits and veggies! (Imagine holding that smile on your face for longer than two minutes.)

Speaking of which…food-wise, I was less impressed with the typical Spanish specialty dishes (paella, tapas, etc), delicious as they were, than by the abundance of super fresh produce available. It was here that I ate hands-down the best orange of my life: perfectly ripe, so fresh and tart and yet not too sweet. But a bit messy, with rivulets of juice running down my hands and making my fingers sticky.

Without a doubt my favorite place in the city was Parc Guell, designed by Art Nouveau architect Antoni Gaudi. The instant I walked passed its gates, I felt that I had somehow landed on a completely different planet.



All the greenery makes for a nice oasis among the city, a little gem set among the cement buildings. As I explored the looping paths of the park, I loved listening to the background music—a continual symphony soundtrack of bird hoots, twitters, and chirps.



The best part of the park was its benches—or rather, it’s one bench (singular). Looking out from the city’s rooftops, it’s long and curved, and and ornately inlaid with broken pieces of multi-colored ceramic pottery. So cool!


Afterwards I was inspired to go home and start breaking dishes and plates so that I could make some mosaics of my own!

It's okay, I'm American...

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.

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.

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.