Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Messy Pasta in Paris
A few years ago my friend and I arrived in Paris, planning to drop our study abroad bags off with someone before taking a train to Barcelona that night to start a three-week backpacking adventure. However, of course things fell through on the first day when the person who was supposed to pick up our bags did not show up. We were college students and not about to pay for a locker, so in a panic I called the only number I had in France, my father's colleague. He had no warning about my phone call, but he stepped out of his meeting and gave me his address, assuring me his 13 year old son would take care of us.
In a jetlagged haze, my friend and I wandered to the apartment in Neiully-sur-Seine and arrived at the door drenched in sweat with two overstuffed bags. The young boy and his little brother ushered us in. They were on school break and were lazing around in their pajamas. The older brother was a ball of energy, speaking quickly in accented English. He put us at ease, assuring us that we shouldn’t worry about storing our massive bags in the small tasteful Parisian apartment. He exclaimed that we must be hungry and started boiling water for pasta. My dad later learned from his father that this was his first time cooking. I should have guessed since pasta and sauce ended up all over the tiled floor in his frenzy.
We sat in the kitchen over our overflowing bowls of pasta. The windows were wide open leading to a balcony crammed with juice bottles. I sat there in awe, overwhelmed by being in a foreign country for the first time without my parents. He told us of his school trip to the US and how much he loved New York. He asked us if we watched The Big Bang Theory (we didn’t), and they insisted we watch it with them because we were American. We watched two episodes after the meal. While the brothers laughed energetically, my friend and I tried to figure out how someone could be so kind to two sweaty foreign strangers.
When the older brother was about to start the third episode, we told him we had to leave for the train. He understood and walked us to the station, helped us buy tickets, and waited until we had passed through the turnstiles, waving goodbye with a huge smile.
He was in school when we returned for our bags, so we never saw him again. This was our first Parisian crush. And who says the French aren’t warm and welcoming.
Illustration by my sister, Lauren Monaco.
Simplicity and Goat Cheese
If you’re looking for overpriced goods, Merci is your place. Even though I say that, I actually
absolutely love this place. I went many times but never bought anything except for two friendship bracelets (the cheapest things I could find), and every visit I would wander around wanting everything.
The entrance has gift-like objects, wooden laptop covers or weird shaped vases. The back acts as a dream closet, displaying vintage coats, leather boots and delicate necklaces. Up the stairs you’ll find the stationary section showcasing elegantly bounded notebooks. And on the bottom floor, culinary trinkets and plates sit on tables next to a restaurant that looks like a spacious cottage kitchen.
I took my father to that kitchen restaurant once, and we were served by a handsome young French man with curly hair, a lovely smile and well-designed black tattoos on his right arm. It was a pleasant eating experience.
However my favorite part is the café on the side, which can be found through a separate entrance from the street. Inside the walls are lined with books. The small room has a few cozy tables stretching back down a hallway that connects to the store. I remember one time getting a café crème and chèvre (goat cheese). It was so good; I know it sounds like your standard bread and cheese, but it wasn't. I normally eat at super speed but I tried to eat really slow, savoring each bite like I was a mature French woman, not a confused study abroad student. This little hideaway is a place
that represents everything I love about Paris and everything I wanted to be when I was there. I could pretend I was someone who did these things, ate those foods, lived that kind of life.
The Kiss
One of my favorite museums in Paris is the Musée Rodin. Before I went, I didn’t have high hopes;
sculpture wasn’t and isn’t really my thing. But I went because everyone raves about Le Penseur (see if you can spot
my friend behind it), Rodin is famous and museums were free.
Inside the museum I walked slowly, a little tired and a little bored, carefully considering each work but moving at a steady pace as part of the procession of visitors. But when I got to Le Baiser, I stopped. I couldn’t stop staring at it, at each part of the embrace; I wanted to memorize all of it. I don’t know much about art, but this was breathtaking. I’d like to take this (and Michelangelo’s David, Monet’s Les Nemphéas and I guess the Acropolis while we’re at it) and place them in a room just for me to regard whenever I desire. I couldn’t believe someone could make this. I couldn’t believe something so beautiful and soft could come out of a block of marble.
I guess what I’m trying to
say is that if you go to Paris, go the Musée Rodin and stare at Le Baiser. Or better yet please steal it for me.
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