First Impressions

Parisians Are Actually Nice
Having heard time and again the horror stories of rude Parisians, I went into this with rather low expectations. I didn’t want to appear the insensitive, non-French speaking American that I am, so I prioritized my French studies and was fairly confident that I could:

1.       Order off a menu.

2.       Ask for directions to the “salle de bains” (bathroom).

3.       Navigate my way around on the Metro and get a taxi.

Food. Bathroom. Transportation. I was set, right? All went swimmingly until we traipsed upon a lovely corner bistro for lunch. Adorable outside café seating; French music in the background; the obligatory dog laying inside…; geraniums o-plenty; it was perfect. We went in, asked for a table for ‘duex’, and were immediately welcomed. Our server appeared and was ready to take our order. We asked for menus, but this bistro did not have menus – just chalkboards outside with the specials! Recognizing that we were fairly clueless, she quickly went outside, grabbed the chalkboard and brought it in for us. She pointed to each item and we could pretty much figure out what it was (FYI – for future Parisian travelers, steer clear of the ‘viande de cheval’). She was lovely and gracious, as were all Parisians we encountered. And the lunch rocked as well.

 The French Paradox or “Eat as much bread as you want, people here don’t get fat”
Our real estate agent (we will call her K) met us our first day at our hotel. K is quite possibly the nicest person I have ever met, over six feet tall, blond, slim and the epitome of chic-Parisian. I immediately felt troll-like. After viewing what seemed like a million flats in the morning we went for a fabulous lunch. Yes, the undercurrent here will always be food. Anyway, I had a delicious mushroom salad and K kept pushing the bread (which is ubiquitous in France) and frites (which are addictive). She said, “eat as much bread and frites as you want, people here don’t’ get fat.” Really? This cannot be true.

After my weeklong observation (a carefully conducted study one might say…or not), I noticed one thing. I did not see ONE French person that was even remotely overweight. At all. Anyone we saw that was overweight was clearly not French (as evidenced by a. being overweight; b. donning a North Face jacket; and c. speaking English). So how is this possible for the cuisine that is heavily laden with cream, butter, and accompanied by wine? I hope to answer that one day. My initial theory after one week (again, a carefully conducted study) is that in one week I did not eat one shred of processed food. Everything is freshly prepared. More to come on French Paradox.  Oh, and no one exercises. At all.

Black
For those of you who have known me for many years, know that while bits of color do occasionally punctuate my wardrobe, my basics have always been, and will always be black. Well, let’s just say this will do well in Paris. Parisians wear black. And lots of it. Women are pretty much head to toe dressed in black. Black shoes, black tights, black pants, black skirts, black jackets, black sweaters, black gloves, black hats. With the muted color scarf. The scarf is the accessory to every outfit. I did see one woman in charcoal grey. Clearly that was a bold move. So, I am guessing the sorbet colored Capri pants I want from J Crew will not blend well here. . .

Au revior for now….