Reppin' the West Coast in Paris

For those of you who don't know what "Reppin" means, the translation (not from French, but from West Coast argot) is "Representing."

By the way, I added more pictures (yay)!!  The link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/AliceinParisFrance

So back to the topic at hand.  Sandwiched between the days of fall-joy and cultural euphoria are days of incredible frustration.  Sometimes the anger comes because I'm sick of people speaking to me in infantile English just because my French is accented.  Sometimes it comes because I'm stuck inside crafting meticulous "plans détaillés" for essays while my friends (who wisely chose to study art history instead of literature) are out partying.  Sometimes it comes because I'm just trying to take out my trash and a crazed Frenchman is yelling at me about scrap-wood left outside his apartment next door (I told him it wasn't my scrap-wood.  He told me he didn't give an *expletive*); and then the elevator is broken (which happens with alarming regularity); and then the dryer does not work (so that's why it was free!).  My response to the cultural frustration?  Be loud.  Be proud.  Be American!!

Ok, usually I am the first to critique our government, social mores, processed food, car-addiction, etc.  But when the French turn up their noses at me, I have nowhere to turn but back West...far West...all the way to my beloved land of origin: the West Coast.  Here's how I rep the good ol' WC (no..NOT the bathroom for godsakes!!):

I wear my Northface vest.  It's a puffy down vest, rather like a pillow that you can wear.  I also like to think of it as a security-blanket that one can wear in public without attracting stares (for anyone who has seen my real security-blanket, I guess I could try to pull off the bohemian-bag-lady-chic with it but...nevermind).  The Northface vest is warm, lightweight, not at all fashionable and, best of all, a true staple in the Northwest.  It's one of the few reasonable items of clothing I own.  Last Sunday I ventured out to the farmers' market to buy vegetables for soup (which--composed of cabbage, tomatoes, carrots, mushrooms, bell pepper, onions, garlic, and lots of basil--was delicious!); it being a lazy Sunday, I decided to wear my puffy vest, my yoga pants (another celebrated staple of West Coast style: comfy, stretchy, reasonable...) and, for the finishing touch, my Rainbow flipflops (a Must for any resident of California).  I was a bit worried about what the stylish Parisians would think of my mishmash outfit, but just donning my native attire fortified me enough to strut proudly to the Boulevard Raspail.  Not only did I not receive a second glance, I began to notice that sunday Parisians are a different breed from weekday ones.  Tons of people were in paint-spattered sweatpants, unflattering sweaters, and sneakers (always bought with the good intention of running, always used to meander to the market for Sunday dinner).  Compared with these slobby schmucks, I had MASTERED the comfy-casual look!  I strutted my way through the Raspail farmers' market, puffy vest puffing nobly behind me, flip-flops flapping on the pavement.  And I managed not to accidentally steal any sweet potatoes this time!

When I first saw Starbucks in Paris, I was annoyed and somewhat embarrassed.  We Americans are not champions of subtlety.  Not content to let Europeans mock our venti lattes from afar, we decide it is imperative to expand our sphere of influence and introduce those weeny espresso-drinkers to the glory that is a caramel-mocha-extra-shot-light-on-the-whipped-cream-frappuccino (who the hell came up with the term "frappuccino" anyway?).  But, I can't be too dismissive because I, too, am a Starbucks-toter (noun, m/f. one who is seen, more often than not, carrying a paper cup emblazoned with the Starbucks logo; often seen running errands, driving (especially in Southern California), or wandering aimlessly with the cup seemingly glued to the hand; known to be aggressive when seen without Starbucks cup).  In any event, I was feeling a combination of frustration and homesickness the other day when I happened upon that big, round, green sign.  I couldn't resist.  But I decided to keep the visit pseudo-Parisian by ordering a small (i.e. very large by French standards) café au lait.  I clung proudly to my cup all the way home on the metro, even staring down an old lady who gave me a sour look (was it the Starbucks cup?  the puffy vest?  maybe I bumped her with my enormous book bag which is clearly labeled: Scripps College).  I am not even ashamed to say I enjoyed it.  At least I didn't get a frappuccino.

Luckily for me (and for Parisians who are ambushed on the metro by the impressive volume of my vest), the days of frustration are often followed by ones of joy.  I wandered around today without a map, only to find myself in the Tuilerie gardens, visiting a lovely église, outside of the Assemblée Nationale, and walking past the grandeur of Invalides...all within a 15 minute walk!  The magic of Paris is seeping into me (maybe the soup with the abundance of French vegetables helped?).  I even found my-formerly-vegetarian-self salivating over the exquisite aroma of a poulet rôti at the farmers' market.  Fewer Parisians respond to me in English.  And, the coup-de-grâce, my rigid French methodology professor returned an assignment with "Excellent travail" scrawled across the top.

After my wanderings and academic success, I'm in very high spirits.  Though I am still wearing the puffy vest (what? it's warm!).

Gros bisous,

Alice