The changing of the seasons has been particularly dramatic in Aix-en-Provence. As soon as I got back from Paris it seemed all of Aix was in bloom. Poppies wink cheerfully on grassy slopes and bushy purple flowers bow down from the trees. The dynamics of life in Aix have changed as well. There is the usual buzz of frenetic energy that follows the departure of winter cold, but there is another joyful part of Aix that has emerged in the past couple weeks. People are out, packed onto cafe terraces or sitting on the steps of fountains.
Some of those people are groups of tourists, who even this early in the season have descended on Aix with their loose fitting button downs and floppy straw hats. I chuckle to myself a little bit when I draw near and hear an American accent, at seeing a stereotype confirm itself. The cathedral by my school is particularly famous and every day there is a tour guide waving a scarf tied to an umbrella and whispering into a microphone. I pass by with my backpack and fold into the shuffling crowd of Aixois, feeling more like an individual than ever.
My French has been improving in leaps and bounds. I went to run errands one day and had every conversation in French, including working out problems with train tickets and trying on shoes. Nobody gave me a strange look or switched to English, a major victory if you have ever been an American in a foreign city. Store clerks who recognize me sometimes throw in terms of endearment like "cherie" or go out of their way to help me. I have become a regular at shops in France and even have inside jokes with the guy at the pizza place on the corner. Although that could also just be a sign I have been eating too much pizza in between classes.
One French stereotype I have found to be 100% true is that French women can eat however many pastries and bread they want and not gain weight. There is seriously at least one boulangerie on every corner and everyday they sell dozens of carb and sugar filled delicacies to these people. Everyone eats a baguette every day. Yet I can count the number of women I have seen with muffin tops on one hand. I rarely see anyone running and I have never seen a gym here.
Some people say the French just have smaller portions. Some surmise that the French just smoke like chimneys to satisfy a meal. My unscientific opinion is that they have a magical property in their DNA that churns all that butter and flour into chicness and "je ne sais quoi." All I know is that I have been on the French diet for three months and the only thing that is evident is that I have certainty been eating pastries.
My gastronomic experiences in France have also been of the experimental sort. I pulled little pesto covered snails out of their cozy shelly homes and digested them. I can attest that frogs legs do taste like very garlicky chicken with the aesthetic bonus of discernible frog feet, calves and thighs. I can do the frogs legs again, but I will leave the recipes for escargot in France.
I have developed a love for Lebanese and Tunisian cuisine. North African and Vietnamese food is sort of the French version of Mexican or Chinese food in America. It is the sort of "I have no idea what is in this but it is delicious so I do not care," food that leaves an aftertaste of culture. Falafel and Tabbouleh are the first things I will be looking for when I get back to the States.
French cuisine has instilled in me a level of culinary snobbery. The French here are obsessed with home grown fruits and vegetables. Everything is labeled "Bio," the French equivalent of organic. A couple weeks ago I tried to buy Spanish strawberries that looked much brighter and juicier than their French neighbors. Though the vendor was offering both and had to sell the Spanish ones some time, he refused to sell them to me and replaced my batch with sadder looking French strawberries. I was peer pressured into supporting what is local.
I will also most likely turn up my nose at anything resembling a croissant or baguette for the first couple months back in America. I will probably spew disparaging phrases of the jaded such as "You call this Camembert?" or "This pain au chocolat is nothing in comparison to the ones in France." Sorry in advance for that.
On the flip side I have been going through withdrawal symptoms when it comes to cheddar cheese, peanut butter or corn products. I did not eat an extraordinary amount of these things back home, but I suppose my cravings go along with the adage you do not know what you have til it is gone. It is still perplexing to me that peanut butter is considered an exotic delicacy and American cheese is a laughable interpretation of "real cheese." My host mother literally laughed in disbelief when I said there is such a thing as grape jelly and that we put it together with peanut butter on pieces of flat white bread. Ce n'est vraiment pas français.
Though American cuisine might not always be considered a high culture thing or pair well with an expensive wine, it connects to a different part of the human experience; home. It always bothers me that the French do not have a word that clearly translates for "home." They have "patrie" which is homeland or "maison" for house. Yet there is nothing that defines the space where you reside not only with people and things but with a sense of your identity and comfort. In my opinion American food perfectly represents that wonderful little nest of home simply because I am American. It might be simple and hearty, but when the goal is to nourish the soul, it does not need to be fancy. I have no shame that my first meal back at home might be a bowl of Mac and Cheese or chicken noodle soup. Having a set of flavors that I can identity as my personal history fill up the heart on their way to the stomach.