Following my first set of Paris observations, here are a few more thoughts. Read on for notes on Parisian tattoos, pedestrians, iced tea, underground dining, water, pastries and crepes, and, of course, macarons.
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Last time, I wrote about a French trend that echoed American fashion: fancy sneakers on everyone with everything. I also wanted to point out that the hipster look of tattoos (on men and women) and beards (men!) has also spread to France in a big way.
I recall reading an article about 15 years ago about how the French, and other Catholic-origin cultures, would never adopt tattoos (or piercings) enthusiastically, as Anglo-Saxon cultures did. That their Roman religious roots somehow made them immune to the idea of defacing their God-given bodies with permanent ink. Clearly that cultural theory has gone the way of the dodo. Tatts are everywhere now among the younger generations in France, just as they are in the US, and tattoo parlors have sprung up too.
It’s odd how, walking along the streets of Paris, Nice, or Aix-en-Provence, the 20-something students were indistinguishable from American hipsters. Levis have long been popular, but now it’s every aspect of their look that mirrors Americans. My French friend attributes this to Netflix, which is popular in France. Young people see American trends there. Instagram, too, and all kinds of social media spread the desire for the same styles around the world. The French are not setting the fashion pace when it comes to lower budget streetwear.
One upside is how little me, my husband, and my pre-teen daughters stood out as different in our American clothes, shoes, and accessories. In fact, people seemed to mistake us for natives. Normally, in the past, that would have made me smile, but now, I view it as a part of the homogenization of all cultures, trends, and self-expression: A little dispiriting.
We also had trouble recognizing who was a local and who wasn’t. I sometimes asked a fellow traveler for directions, and usually it turned out to be an American. When I realized their confusion, I’d rapidly switch from Parisian French to American English to rephrase my question. This amazed my kids. (As my husband said: “It’s your mom’s super power!”)
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Parisians walk VERY fast.
Our second night in town, we were strolling around the 6tharrondissement after dinner. We were tired, and full, and taking our time.
I heard behind us an exasperated voice. “Oh, les touristes,” came from a young woman to her friend. I overheard them scheming to jaywalk across the street to get away from our too-slow steps. Just then, Bob said we should cross together as well, and unknowingly stepped right in front of them.
The young women angrily muttered and marched around us, and I called out, “Oui, les touristes!” my voice somewhat bitter. I am not quite sure if they heard me or even cared. But it helped me to acknowledge that I knew they were talking about us…. and didn’t appreciate the attitude.
A few days later, walking down a Parisian street, I heard myself saying, “My God, these tourists are SO slow. We’ve got to get around them.”
When in Paris, I guess, one can become slightly more Parisian.
The only problem is, when trying to pass other pedestrians on a very tight walkway, you might end up walking in the road, and there, the motorcycles (or cars) might get you. They come out of nowhere in the tiny old streets.
I am certainly not the first to observe the Parisian pedestrian rapidity. The late British author Peter Mayle, who wrote about his experiences living in Provence, reminded readers that you could always tell visiting Parisians in the South of France apart from the locals by how extremely fast they walked.
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It’s official: the French have bubble tea (aka pearl tea, aka boba tea). We tried “Chatime,” a small storefront facing the Seine near the Place St Michel.
It’s like the bubble tea served in America, with a similar list of flavors (I got mango green tea), only even more expensive (at least 5 euros per serving). Happily, the tapioca pearls were quite tender, just how I like it. My daughters gave it a thumbs up as well.
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Eating in a wine cellar is quaint, but once you’re down there, expect a long stay. (This is not ideal for the claustrophobic or the super hungry.)
We enjoyed dining in the “caveau” on the basement level of a small restaurant on Paris’ charming Ile St Louis. The thick stone walls had a certain charm and had clearly been cleaned and refreshed. However, it was slightly musty and dank, and “out of sight out of mind” is surely true in France as well. We saw our server approximately once per half hour and eventually had to ascend to ground level three hours later to pay our bill and move on with our lives.
I did enjoy the endive salad and fish, though, and we had plenty of time to talk and visit as a family. But I confess, I breathed easier as we emerged into the open air.
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Water is a precious resource. We all know this, but as Americans, we have come to expect water served at restaurants as our due. During the long California draught, we noticed more restaurants posting signs saying “to save water, we won’t serve you water unless you request it,” and we were somewhat annoyed. Americans want our access to free water to begin just as soon as we arrive at an eatery, thank you very much! You know, “give us your tired, your thirsty,” etc. (Yes, this is a generalization, but I challenge you to find evidence to the contrary.)
Well, in France (and Europe overall) getting water is a different story, one that tells of scarcity rather than abundance.
Few water fountains grace French public places. French restaurants are required to serve you free water if you request it, my French friends tell me. Yet they are not exactly happy about it, since they make no money off the tap water itself, and probably resent having to wash your water glasses “for free.”
So when you politely request “un carafe d’eau” with your meal, be prepared to wait. And wait. And the carafe that the water brings will be small, and you will have to ask for multiple refills, especially if you are traveling with parched, potentially dehydrated, tour-weary children.
(Also: Be sure not to ask for just “water”–“eau”–because often they will bring you Evian or another expensive bottled water. Word to the wise: “carafe d’eau” is the way to go.)
The water dearth in France did make us value our free-flowing American water. We are used to large, ice-filled glasses of the wet and refreshing stuff set down in front of us almost as soon as our rear ends hit the seats.
(The only kind of water we saw a lot of in Paris was the Seine, and of course the waves and waves of rain that fell on our heads.)
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Speaking of ice: You may know that ice is not really a “thing” in France if you’ve ever traveled there before. But there’s often a unique twist in the Gallic mind. What got me this time around is that there are more restaurants serving “iced tea”—just don’t expect ice. (As I mentioned above, bubble tea, a.k.a. pearl tea, has made it to Paris, but it’s still a rarity.)
After leaving Paris, I ordered and consumed a lovely “thé glacé” in the Rothschild Villa restaurant in Cap Ferrat on the French Riviera (a longer story for another time). Quality tea, and was served cold. Well chilled, but not an ice cube to be found, just a foamy layer on the top.
Be warned: most places in France that serve “iced tea” will give you Nestea Pêche in a can, or some other syrupy disaster.
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My kids never thought they’d get sick of pastries. And yet…. temporarily, they did. Numerous croissant breakfasts, both to-go from bakeries and seated at cafés, seemed to put them over the edge.
My older daughter tried brioche and almond pastry; my younger daughter preferred chausson aux pommes, an applesauce-filled puff pastry. But after nearly a week of this, they started to rebel. The kids were quite eager to return to cereal, toast, and eggs.
They even seemed to tire of crepes, which I also didn’t think was possible. Within three days we had crepes three times for lunch. The frequency took the fun out of it for them.
Personally, I really did enjoy the “crepes de sarrasin,” I ate, also known as “galettes de blé noir.” In this country, we’d call it a buckwheat crepe or pancake. It’s uniquely hearty and savory, especially with swiss cheese, mushrooms, and a touch of egg or ham. Those crepes are the “salée” or “salted” version you often find in France (and especially in Bretagne, birthplace of great crepes). They are perfect with a bowl of hard cider, also from Brittany (I prefer brut, but some like doux, or sweet).
The “sucrée” crepe, on the other hand, is made with a more typical white flour and served sweet with a range of flavors (Nutella or chestnut being favorites). It can also be tangy with a lovely sprinkling of fresh lemon juice.
I’m getting hungry.
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And once more back to food: macarons. If you like things French and live in a major metropolitan area, you’ve undoubtedly tried these upscale delights. If you don’t know them, I do recommend you seek some out. I wouldn’t exactly call them cookies, but they are in the cookie/pastry family. They are essentially two fluffy rounds with flavored cream or preserves inside.
On this trip, we were struck by the expansion of macarons across Paris and France. More than ever, they seemed very widely available. We stopped several times at La Durée, where the macarons on offer were light and delicate and delicious. My daughters surprised me by loving the rose and geranium flavors. I’m partial to raspberry and lemon. Mmm.
Sadly, I lost my sense of taste for a time during my Paris stay. This happened because, unfortunately, I’m allergic to the city. Its high ozone levels and diesel pollution make me ill after even a short stay. But through the wonder of allergy pills, I regained my senses in time to take in a few last macarons, and the memory lingers.
MeredithInk 