All that Changes and Stays the Same

When I go to a new place I like to be open to discarding old routines and adapting to the most natural flow of my new environment. Out goes my cinnamon fetish, recipe reading and gym routine, and instead I devote myself to dates and pears, French children's novels and hours of vocabulary flash-cards. After being in France for two and a half months I realized that some habits of my former existence are just too precious to discard. I began taking long walks to the north of where we live, in open rebellion against French women's disdain for exercise but with the pretence of merely surveying the landscape. I soon traded city clothes for runners and I have since begun to run these rolling hills feeling fully satisfied in getting out of the house, taking in the country air and relishing the movement and motion. I similarly indulged in an NPR podcast about a month ago, and since then have caught myself up on every missed episode of Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me, This American Life, and PRI's short story editions. I likewise have turned a blind eye to the utter absence of any grain or whole wheat in my diet, as well as dairy besides the odd smattering of coffee milk or cheese. But today I calcium crave and shall cave, and I shall march down to the store for a generous tub of plain yoghurt .

There are likewise many habits that I've adopted while living here that I'll not so enthusiastically loose. I appreciate the routine tidiness of the living space; how each clothing item, dish, glass and body product has it's appropriate place. The living space is just too small to not be neat and it makes me feel quite on top of my small, organized world. I also like the encouraged regular consumption of bottled water- the plastic is wasteful but I don't think I've ever been so hydrated in my life. Light switches are well placed and designed that they're easy to tap on and off. The "stores" (English word is...?) on the windows that got wound down from the inside, make the inside of the apartments private and pitch black at any time of the day: a burrow like sleeping environment and a nice transition from day to night. Women's body products and perfumes are a cornerstone of female existence and I don't think I've ever been so amply supplied with such products for daily preparation.

The expectations for the quality of food (preparation, smell, taste, melting consumption) match so nicely with my own finicky standards that I don't give the slightest thought to being a choosy eater as much as just another plebeian worshiper of the delicacy placed before me. One never eats a lot, but can slowly and amorously slice and savour each tasty bite. Dinners here are appropriately long (1-3 hours), with enough variety of courses that every craving on the palate is satiated. The hot food item: potage, ratatouille, blanchette, coquilles de St. Jacque, or something of Provincial nature leads the opening course of every evening. We then can choose between any number of bread's from Paul's Bakery: olive, abricot, cereal, or fromage being our favourites, and then eat this with either olives, tapinade (olive, garlic, anchovy blend), avocado, Tamara (fish eggs at its base I believe), or cheese (Camembert, Brie, Pont l'Évêque, chevre, Caprice des Dieux) as our most regular options. The last course is usually a green salad which we can adorn with sliced tomatoes and balsamic or choose to add chickpeas, cucumber, or red pepper as fancy requires. More standard dessert items, that we have from time to time, are mandarin oranges (brilliantly orange and sweet at this season), pears (don't think blah N. American pears) or yoghurt. Our little household also has a particular weakness for hazelnut chocolate so we have a number of varieties to nibble from. My theory, which I'm sure many other's have shared, is that any religious fervour that was lost during the French Revolution was simply transferred to the worship of the dinner meal. While I obviously don't share in their same dismissal of the church, I feel quite at home partaking in their evening rites around the alter of the dinner table.


I frequent this cornerstore daily for a date (the edible kind) and a pear.


A typical street in Aix


Tim, Jenna's neighbour from Chicago, and I outside St. Savior's Cathedral in Aix. Tim flew out for a trip through France with two of his friends, Mike and Brett. Before they arrived we entertained him by sitting outside in the sun and dining on olives, bread and wine.


Justine, Jenna and Tim before for a costume party. Caesar (all the french people yelled "Av" to him on the street), a flapper, and a Venician doll (I, the robot, happily stayed out of the pictures)


Tim, Brett and Mike in their little room. After their first night over I asked in the morning, "So, who ended up sleeping in the bed?" There was a moment's pause before Tim answered, "Les Trois".




This is what good chocolate does to your world: Thank You Purycard for all your tasty delights