Safety first

They say that a safe topic of polite conversation in France is the weather. So I’d like to start off with an obligatory weather update. Currently I’m thanking my lucky stars I’m in the marvelous sud de la France where each day is warmer than the one before and the sun shines 360 days out of the year. This little weatherbug-esque tidbit is spurred by the catastrophe and a half that is the current apocalypse-status weather in the motherland (miss you, you commercial, efficient, beautifully superficial, home of country/rap music aka the only kinds that matter, speedy little place we like to call les Etats-Unis ). But oui oui I’m pretty sure there were icicle spottings in Screwston, which leads me to believe that it is, in fact, brrrrrrr and also very possibly the second coming.

Here when the weather forecast anticipates a partly cloudy day, what that generally tends to mean is that, at some point during the day, you may be able to spot a cloud if you squint really hard and stare into the sun until you can’t really see much of anything at all. Meanwhile, my excessive viewing of House re-runs on the ordinateur have me panicking over the possibility of having acquired a terrifying, undiagnosed illness of sorts, whereas most of the time what I’m dealing with is just a hangover. JUST KIDDING!!!! MOM, SERIOUSLY...I’M KIDDING. If you send me another email chastising me for my cavalier attitude towards alcohol I will knock myself over the head with the next bottle of rose I find. But just for you I’ve dedicated this post to safety and topics of discussion befitting a well-traveled young woman such as myself.

So now that I’ve covered my first safe topic, onto the next. Food. Cultural disparities abound, be warned. The French vivent pour manger, while we tend to manger pour vivre. (Duh) The frighteningly compulsive, blink-and- that-quarter-double has just done a vanishing act, characteristic of the morbidly obese aka your average American, is looked upon with disdain in France. In this context disdain reads more along the lines of sheer terror. They like to take their time, painstakingly drawing out their meals, which last for hours on end.They attempt to eat dinner as close to the witching hour as is humanly possible, thereby bringing you to the very brink of hypoglycemic-induced shock and starvation before aggressively shoving a wheel of unrefrigerated, unpasteurized cheese in your mouth, offering a baguette as a chaser. Apparement our confusion and the sound of growling tummies as we wait, salivating, for the next course, is dubbed uncultured, we're labeled base creatures incapable of comprehending the mighty art de vivre. What can I say, my pauper tastes just can't keep up. Shieeeeeeet. 

That being said, the Nutella banini (banana panini) that I’ve been concoting (don’t even worry I’m such a down to earth domestic woman, future fantastic breakfast maker extraordinaire for certain) for myself as of late is a true masterpiece. My tastebuds sing its praises on the reg. Speaking of tastebuds, my tastebuds haven’t been inflamed at all the entire time I’ve been abroad! For those who don’t know, my tastebuds swell up when I’m stressed out. At Tufts a walk down Professor’s Row after a Tuesday night out is enough to trigger those bad boys into proper ouchies. Perhaps a slight exaggeration, but it’s not like I have a penchant for excessive embellishment so pas de probleme really. MEANWHILE my real point-- I’m just living the life over here with great new friends, a fabulous new city, exciting travels/swimsuit season in the very immediate future, and petite, trendy tastebuds just right for sampling des choses comme French cheese, or different fine wines de la region consumed slowly, moderately, and solely for epicurean purposes. To be honest, which is something I rarely am, I forget what real life is like.

SO. Moral of the story, safety first. The French and their “wines” are not your friends. If there’s one thing I excel at, it’s safety, and if there’s one thing I possess en abondance, it’s the proper savoir-faire in a foreign country full of hedonistic fiends.

If you ain’t running with it, run from it mutha-frenchers

xo Mags

PS  On the subject of politics, one of my professors is an anarchist. Like fully a member of the Socialist political persuasion. Which he attempted to sell us like a freaking product on the home shopping channel in class the other day. Like, I’m almost certain I saw him strolling on le cours the other day with a defined French surly glare, coffee in one hand, and something by Engels dans l’autre. A combo of chic, caffeinated, and, oh, casually COMMUNIST.