And now, moving on to new foreign adventures…

London, like any thriving metropolis, is filled with some standard chain restaurants. The ubiquitous ones here are the unpronounceable Pret A Manger, Caffé Nero, Starbucks (of course), and the appropriately named EAT. (That period is actually in the restaurant’s name.)

Now, these chain eateries are all fine and cheap (though Starbucks charges 40p for whipped cream!), but one can easily grow tired of pre-packaged BLTs, and as an enterprising BU student, I’ve taken it upon myself to eschew these middle-of-the-road restaurants and seek out reasonably priced flavorful food all by myself (and with the help of a couple friends).

However, this task has proven to be more difficult than we originally thought. The neighborhood of South Kensington (where BU London is headquartered) is one of the fanciest areas of the city, and good, cheap food is hard to come by. (In fact, Time Out London’s map of Cheap Eats presents a noticeable gap directly around South Ken.) Therefore, we have to venture into other areas. Since the London underground, or “Tube” (or to BU students, “the T”), costs £4 round trip, we need to make sure that every ride counts.

Pho, from Pho. | Photo by Joel Kahn.

SoHo is a very popular part of London. It is filled not only with tourists and theatres, but also with overpriced bars and terrible nightclubs. Up until this weekend, every trip into SoHo has resulted in a member of our group declaring, “Let’s never come here again.” And yet, due to its close proximity to Chinatown and ample cheap-eateries, we keep reluctantly returning.

Reluctantly, that is, until we discovered Pho, a Vietnamese restaurant in the non-terrible part of SoHo. Pho offers giant bowls of Vietnamese noodles, meat, and broth (a dish known as pho) in various combinations, as well as bún—made of cold vermicelli rice noodles. Pho also offers a great atmosphere of white-washed wood walls, red ceilings, and basket sconces—not to mention the only bottles of Sriracha spotted in London so far. And the best part: most of its dishes are around £8 (about $12)…not too shabby.

On the other side of the Tube station (in the terrible part of SoHo) is Dishoom, a self-described “Bombay Café.” Dishoom does properly convey the feeling of a sweltering basement in the heart of Mumbai—just without the social strife and population density. An added plus: it’s LOUD. Us Americans are not used to people sitting and eating in silence, riding the subway in silence, or partaking in every aspect of life in a hushed whisper. Thankfully, Dishoom presented the context for speaking at full volume without feeling embarrassed. Oh, and they have food, too. The menu contains an assortment of Biryani, curries, and Tikkas, many for under £10. These dishes were nice and spicy—just as spicy as the place was loud.

"Mummy, could I have some more?" | Photo by Joel Kahn.

Over on the non-cheap side of town, Piccadilly Circus, there lies a delightful macaron shop. Macarons are little heavenly sandwiches made of egg whites and filled with deliciousness, and the French shop Ladurée has some beautiful specimens. The shop lies just around the corner from Old Bond Street—the fanciest street in all of London. Just after shopping at Alexander McQueen or Prada, one can hop around the corner for some multi-colored French confections.

So there are places in London worth the trip that won’t break the bank. Hopefully, there are enough to last through the semester. If I end up frequenting KFC in April, please be sure to slap me across the face and make me aware of the error of my ways.

English Breakfast: The Appetizer Sampler by Joel Kahn

English Breakfast: Escape to Camden by Deb Singer

Eat This Instead of That: Breakfast by Estefania Souza

Camden was home to Amy Winehouse. | Photo by Michael Zonenashvili

Two weeks have passed since the start of BU’s Study Abroad program in London, and life in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea has proven to be spectacular. In addition, this borough, as its name suggests, has also proven to be overly expensive and a bit stuffy. While life here may be fine and dandy for our neighbors, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (a.k.a. Will and Kate), we BU students, who are used to slumming it in Allston, have been on the hunt for an area with a bit more character.

With a dash of grunge, a pinch of bizarre and just a tinge of commercial, the neighborhood of Camden in East London has very quickly become a favorite destination for all things food, drink and shopping related.

After “minding the gap” from the South Kensington Tube station all the way to the Camden Town Tube station (about a 25 minute commute), the transformation from conservative opulence to quirky grunge is almost shocking. The streets are lined with shouting friends, street performers and outgoing salespeople. The Camden Market, which is scattered into multiple locations around the neighborhood, offers everything from adorable dresses and kitschy t-shirts to second hand Dr. Martens and other vintage goods.

The Steak Mexican Burger at Haché. | Photo by Deb Singer

Across the street from the market on a small road called Inverness Street is a plethora of shops and restaurants. From record stores to soul food, this street truly has a little bit of everything. However, one restaurant on this side street stands out among all of the others: Haché. This is a gourmet burger restaurant done right and for a great price. The menu offers multiple versions of the classic beef burger, as well as steak burgers, lamb burgers, falafel burgers, fish and chicken sandwiches and an unbelievably flavorful duck burger. They have a great variety of sides, but the standouts are the sweet potato fries and potato wedges, which are served with garlic mayo and salsa.

Out of the many beef burger options, there are two that are particularly tasty. The first is called the Steak All Day Breakfast Burger. Served on your choice of a fresh ciabatta or brioche bun, this beef burger is paired with tomato, bacon, a portobello mushroom, and finally it is topped with a fried egg. This take on a breakfast burger is full of flavor, with the mild portobello, salty bacon and rich egg contributing to a delicious meal. For something a bit spicier, the Steak Mexican Burger is the best bet. Also served on a ciabatta or brioche bun, this beef burger is prepared with cajun spices and topped with tomato, jalapeño peppers and arugula, with sides of fresh salsa, guacamole and sour cream.

The most impressive item on the menu is, without a doubt, the Aromatic Crispy Duck Burger. As the Haché menu describes, the duck burger is “succulent, crispy duck breast with spring onion, slices of cucumber and oriental hoi sin sauce.” This sandwich is piled high with tender, crispy duck breast, which is both roasted and pan fried to add a bit of crunch. Along with the fresh vegetables on top and the salty sweet hoi sin sauce, this truly is a delicious sandwich bursting with complex flavors. Unfortunately, the duck burger is one of the pricier items on the menu, so for a casual bite to eat, it puts a bit of a dent in your wallet.

Drinks at the Camden Eye. | Photo by Michael Zonenashvili

After the meal, walk back down Camden High Street, pass the Tube station, turn left onto Kentish Town Road and located right on the corner in the middle of the major intersection is the perfect pub for an after-dinner drink. The Camden Eye sits right in the heart of Camden and has every bit of character to show for it. With its vintage inspired decorations and great selection of music, this pub is the ideal place to relax for a bit and grab a pint of beer or cider.

While South Kensington is a lovely neighborhood in which to live, it’s always exciting to escape to Camden for a change of pace. Its bustling markets, impressive record stores, historic music venues (The Electric Ballroom) and many restaurants and pubs never fail to entertain, making Camden one of the most exhilarating places to visit in London.

English Breakfast: Breaking the Chains by Joel Kahn

English Breakfast: The Appetizer Sampler by Joel Kahn

Eat This Instead of That: Breakfast by Estefania Souza

Mandatory "view from the airplane" picture. | Photo by Noah Eberhart.

Something about Australia has always intrigued me.  Perhaps it’s the grizzled-but-gentlemanly way the countrymen have been portrayed in movies like Crocodile Dundee. Australia seemed to me to be a man’s man’s paradise, brimming with dusty outback to be gazed upon with a Clint Eastwood stare and conquered; a land in which I might shave a sheep in the middle of the street and eat it raw before tipping my 10 gallon hat to a passing sheila.  The country certainly caters to my raw, outdoorsy, pseudo-macho side, honed after years of crafting survival huts out of sticks, neckerchiefs and sweat in the Boy Scouts.

Or maybe I was pulled in by the way Outback Steakhouse depicts Australia: as a happy-go-lucky, “Let’s share us a bloomin’ onion, mate!” sort of place, where affable kangaroos join you around the campfire for a rousing rendition of “Waltzing Matilda” before bringing you a cold beer and tucking you into bed. Either way, I’ve always had an itching desire to visit the land down under, so this semester I’m living the dream.

One of my goals over the coming months is to see past the stereotypes, to remove the tinted lenses from my eyes and gain a more genuine understanding of the culture. Just as there’s more to America than McDonald’s and 50 Cent, there’s more to Australia than Vegemite and “shrimp on the barbie.”  It’s easy to think that because Australians speak the same basic language as us, they’re really not all that different – as one might think about Canada.  This simply can’t be true.  As with any foreign culture, especially one halfway around the world, there will be wrinkles and layers never considered, things obvious and rudimentary to Australians that would make an American raise an eyebrow.  These differences, though intricate, represent broader philosophical gaps between cultures, and may serve to illuminate ideas that, for an American, had long lived in the dark.  So with that, I must ask a question I will spend the coming semester attempting to answer: what is it exactly that makes Australia Australia?

* * *

It’s not often I watch an instructional safety video and expect to gain anything besides how to avoid getting myself killed or what bad haircuts people had in the ’90s, but the Qantas Airlines video on the plane to Sydney was an exception.  For the most part, the video was not in any way notable, but the first sentence spoken after “Welcome to Qantas Airlines, the kangaroo of the skies!” or whatever their slogan may be, was quite revealing.  I can’t quote it verbatim—after an initial six hour flight to Los Angeles and a 12 hour layover, my memory tends to get a bit strung out—however, the gist of it was, “We know you know how to put on a seatbelt, but please pay attention because the rest of this information could save your life.”

I thought this was telling because it caters to an independent mindset with just a dash of sarcasm.  The quip indicates that Australians are inclined to react to those who think they’re above the rules with a bit of friendly disdain. As I’ve come to learn, Australians are indeed the first to point out if you’re doing something stupid and will respond to it with amicable mockery.

Humor is generally more developed in Australia.  I mean not that it’s more intellectually developed, but that Australians seem to by and large have a good sense of humor more often than their American counterparts.  A friend of mine dropped a wine bottle on the street a few days ago, shattering it. Several passersby deadpanned over the tragedy of the event, much to my chuckling.  In America, I imagine one person perhaps would have commented—likely with direct, sincere sympathy, not the humorized type—but most Americans would have walked right past without a second glance (though in Allston, I estimate someone would have broken a bottle right back at us because that is the native greeting ritual).

The wine incident clues me in to another Australian wrinkle—friendliness.  Australians aren’t afraid to make friends with strangers. They love to chat and have a drink. I’ve been here a week, and it seems every time I go out, I get multiple Australians’ numbers. I am not a very sociable person when it comes to strangers.  Meeting new people is difficult for me.  I’m fairly certain most people I meet think I hate them because I’m so shy.  And yet, soon the Australians in my contact list will actually outnumber the Americans, which is pretty incredible.

But it’s actually not that incredible.  I’m bound to meet quite a few people during my semester here—Sydney is a city of four million.  And it’s quite a neat city at that, though I haven’t yet seen much more than the more touristy areas.  The city manages to feel intimate, though it’s sprawling.  The Harbour Bridge is overpowering.  The Opera House is as perfect and iconic as you’d expect it to be—instantly recognizable, the Eiffel Tower of the southern hemisphere.  Sydney is very cosmopolitan because of Australia’s high immigrant population, which gives it a sort of diverse flair. The food options are just as diverse.

While we’re on the topic of food: I’ve done it.  I’ve tried the infamous paste known as Vegemite. I’ve carved it from the depths of its intimidating yellow-labeled jar and ingested it through my mouth. And guess what?  I want more.

Before you gag on your own vomit at the thought, I just wish to say that I can see how Vegemite might turn some off if consumed incorrectly.  You can’t use too much.  I’ve asked several Australians the proper method, and it’s pretty simple.  Make buttered toast.  Put a thin—thin—layer of the stuff on top.  I did just that and it was delicious.  Salty and savory.  I could go for some right now, actually.

* * *

Awesome Australian Thing of the Week:

In this space, I’ll be putting something terrifically Australian that I discover each week.  This week’s winner comes in the form of a headline from the Sydney Morning Herald; one that, I might add, is silly in a vaguely British sort of way:

“Wilkie has a bob each way on controversial pokie changes.”

“Pokies” are slot machines.  Some in Australia have made calls for sweeping gambling reform.

Runner Up:

There’s a dumpling place down the street from the Boston University Sydney Centre called “Bling Bling Dumpling.”  In it’s front window, it displays dumplings placed carefully among giant fake diamonds and a large stuffed Pikachu.  I haven’t eaten here yet, but inside looks very sparkly.  This is more Asian than Australian, but it deserves a mention simply for existing.

 * * *

Photos

Each week I’ll post some photos I’ve taken.

The Australian flag hangs near Darling Harbour. | Photo by Noah Eberhart.

The Sydney Opera House and imposing Harbour Bridge. | Photo by Noah Eberhart.

Boats in the Sydney Harbour, with the Opera House and Harbour Bridge in the background. | Photo by Noah Eberhart.

A collection of pigeons and ibis congregate in Hyde Park. | Photo by Noah Eberhart.

A street performer balances a spinning wheel on his head in downtown Sydney. | Photo by Noah Eberhart.

Final note: I just want to make it known that the elevators in our building bear the company name, “Schindler.”  In Australia, as in Britain, elevators are called “lifts.”  So, somewhere out there may be a company known as… “Schindler’s Lifts.”

The Museum of Natural History is directly across the street from one of BU's London dorms. | Photo by Joel Kahn

A new semester means a new crop of eager students shipping off overseas to participate in some of BU’s many diverse Study Abroad programs. At 326 students, BU’s London program is this semester’s most popular, and I (Joel) will be alternating with Quad food writer Deb Singer to bring our take on these three and a half months in jolly old Londontown.

This weekly column, entitled “English Breakfast”, will chronicle our time abroad, and focus mainly on the culinary adventures therein. Sadly, London does not have the kind of language barrier that Annie White often humorously commented on in her “An American in Paris” series last fall. (There are, however, many words that mean different things here. To Brits, “pants” means “underwear.” Do not tell a bartender that you like her pants.)

But I digress.

One week is obviously not enough time to survey an entire metropolis and all of the diverse cuisines it encompasses, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try.

BU has three dorms in London, each with communal kitchens for every 10-15 students. I got lucky in that my kitchen only has seven people using it. (Though I have to share my bathroom with two girls. Who planned this layout?) The kitchens come equipped with dishes, glassware, silverware, pots, pans, and some of the dullest knives I’ve ever encountered. If any administrator from the BU London program is reading this, please replace the knives in all the kitchens. Sincerely, Joel Kahn, cutlery-safety activist.

Our first night here, some friends and I went out for Indian food near our dorm in South Kensington. We chose the wonderfully named “Kwality Restaurant” and were shocked to find out that British people are considerably quieter than us boisterous Americans. Some people actually moved their table to get away from us. It hurt. But not enough to make me stop eating all that naan and mango curry. After that first night, we specifically sought out restaurants that would be able to tolerate our unrefined American volume levels.

For our first home cooked meal, Deb (of The Quad fame) made a mushroom, cheddar, bacon and arugula quiche with a rosemary-infused crust. After experiencing Ms. Singer’s baking ability first-hand, I can only attest to the fact that she is a Super Baker, and any recipes she has posted on this fine website are highly reliable.

My second home-cooked meal is one that shall go down in abroad infamy. My friends and I cooked spaghetti with marinara sauce. (Nothing worth writing about, though we did put Taleggio cheese into our salad.) The good part came when I tried to place the large bowl of pasta onto the table, and ended up spilling the near-boiling sauce and noodles all over my hand. I awoke the next morning with second degree burns (I shan’t go into detail here) all over my left hand, and still keep it in my pocket at all times so as not to offend anyone who may accidentally see my mutilated appendage. It should heal soon.

The sweet fruit salad pancake (top) and savory chili con carne pancake (bottom) from My Old Dutch Pancake House. | Photo by Deb Singer.

Since that accident, I have not really been able to cook myself. However, restaurant meals in London are expensive, so I’ve been managing. The trick is to balance in-dorm meals with ventures out into this exciting city. For Sunday brunch, I had a savory (or as they say here, “savoury”) pancake at My Old Dutch Pancake House. These pancakes are very large and thin—about the size of a medium pizza, but each serves only one person. They’re used more as flatbreads than as sweet pancakes, though this restaurant had options on both the entree and dessert side.

Of course, I have seen many sites as well—Big Ben, Portobello Road, some corgis in Hyde Park—but those mentions are for a very different type of travel blog.

I will leave, however, with one final tip: beware of pubs with inauthentic menus. As my friends and I scavenged Notting Hill looking for a fish n’ chips place, we stumbled upon a delightful old-timey pub. We had mediocre fish n’ chips, and upon returning to our dorm neighborhood, noticed that another nearby pub had the same menu and logo—though a different name. It seems as though these pubs have been conglomerated into a T.G.I. Fridays-esque british kitsch house of lies…and were kind of expensive to boot.*

*In the UK, “boot” refers to the trunk of a car.

English Breakfast: Breaking the Chains by Joel Kahn

English Breakfast: Escape to Camden by Deb Singer

Eat This Instead of That: Breakfast by Estefania Souza

Paris is kind of a nice place. Photo by Annie White.

Somehow (actually, I know how. It was that whole time marches on thing) I have reached the end of my semester in Paris. Final papers have been written, final exams have been taken, my mastery of the French language has reached its peak and will now steadily decline until all I can remember is  “Je veux une omelette de fromage.” And, most importantly, by the middle of next week I will be getting off a plane in Detroit and going home to a Christmas tree, some apple cider, and my family.

It seems only right to do a summary of deep, meaningful life lessons that I learned during my semester abroad, and how I have been forever changed as a person. But I don’t want to do that, so instead I will lay down a blanket statement about French culture and then move on to making fun of the French language one last time.

First off: France is a wonderful place that has managed to largely preserve a way of life that is at once endlessly charming and largely impractical. French people are kind, helpful, proud, and they will make fun of you if you have an accent. They might benefit from being slightly more organized, punctual, or polite, but then of course they would not be French. And no one wants a bunch of un-French French people running around having identity crises.

Now. Moving on.

One of the things I will miss most about France is, believe it or not, grocery shopping. I have found grocery shopping here to be amusing and even ridiculous – it is a familiar thing rendered totally different just by crossing the Atlantic Ocean. For instance. Things you can buy at a grocery store in France: refrigerated breakfast pancakes; unrefrigerated milk; a whole, skinned rabbit complete with eyeballs and teeth. Things you cannot buy at a grocery store in France: bacon; syrup; gum that costs less than four Euros.

The snack aisle is also significantly smaller here, but features a truly stunning array of potato chip flavors. My personal favorites are “Mystère” (Mystery), “Poulet Roti”  (rotisserie chicken), and “Nature”(salted). The first two because they are truly absurd, and the third because it seems to suggest that the potatoes popped out of the ground sliced into chips and lightly salted, ready for bagging.

In a similar vein (the vein of the myriad sillinesses of the French language, in case you weren’t paying attention) I will also miss the signage of Paris, because something about it is just quintessentially French. There is a park across the street from me with a pond that is populated by scary geese, and around the pond are signs that say, “if you like the birds, do not feed them.” In the US, these signs would say “Do not feed the wildlife,” but in Paris you are only implored to refrain from feeding the geese if you like them. If you don’t like them, you are at perfect liberty to poison them with your nasty human food. Freedom of choice at its finest.

An American in Paris: At Risk for Scurvy by Annie White

An American in Paris: Thanksgiving by Annie White

An American in Paris: Franglish by Annie White

Unrelated: one of the most distressing things to me about France is how many statues do not have heads. | Photo by Annie White.

Over the past several weeks, I have slowly become aware of the fact that I am not awful at French anymore.  This is not to say, of course, that I speak perfect or even near-perfect French, but Francophones are now able to accept the noises that come out of my mouth as a recognizable language. It has been a while since someone started talking to me in French, decided listening to my accent wasn’t worth it, and then switched to English, and it has been a (shorter) while since I started speaking French, realized I had no idea what I was trying to say, and was forced to stare dumbly at whoever I was talking to, hoping they would throw me a rope.

However – there’s always a however – there are still a few things I have no idea how to say in French and will probably never learn. These gaps are probably a result of my extremely relaxed attitude towards language acquisition – I don’t own a French dictionary and enjoy making up my own meanings for words I don’t know, with little regard for accuracy.

Most of the reason I have eschewed dictionaries (with the important exception of when I am writing papers) is that I think it is really fun to hear a word fifteen times and not understand it… and then suddenly realize exactly what it means. Unfortunately, the reward compared to the amount of time I spend utterly confused is not very satisfying.

My first lexical gap is that I do not know how to say “you’re welcome.”  Or, rather, I do know how to say it (de rien) but I never do. For some reason, I have not been able to integrate this phrase into my French vocabulary, despite having integrated other, less polite vocabulary with much less trouble. For some reason, saying de rien never seems right to me, so whenever someone says “thank you,” I do one of two things: I either say a very enthusiastic “thank you” back (which is fine at the store, but is a little strange if someone just asked me for directions), or mumble awkwardly and run away.  Early in my stay in Paris, I was constantly trying to force myself to use de rien in daily conversation, but I have finally accepted my fate as a person unable to gracefully acknowledge thanks. Parisians, to their credit, seem to take this in stride.

My second, and probably more problematic, gap relates to food. Before coming to Paris, when I was anticipating the struggles I would face, I always counted ordering food as one of the things I would be good at, since it is one of the few things they actually teach Americans in French class. Unfortunately, what they teach is how to order an omelet. Or a cheese omelet. Or a grilled cheese sandwich. Or a grilled cheese sandwich with an egg on top. This is all very well and good, but while I have never had occasion to order an omelet in Paris, I have found myself sitting in a restaurant staring at a menu and realizing that my dinner was going to be a surprise.

Of course, I could just ask for help, but with my pride already bruised from three months in a country where I communicate at the level of a toddler of less than average intelligence, asking for help reading a menu seems like one step too far.

An American in Paris: Being American in Paris by Annie White

An American in Paris: Parting Thoughts by Annie White

An American in Paris: Behind the Language Barrier by Annie White

Paris was wonderfully festive this weekend, but I forgot my camera so instead I present this photo of a gold-plated deer head to prove that France is a silly place. | Photo by Annie White

I have always been one of those people who believes strongly in the sanctity of Thanksgiving. It isn’t a just a buffer holiday so people have a reason for a long weekend in between Halloween and Christmas. It is a wonderful celebration of the importance of community, and it is perhaps the only major holiday that has resisted commercialization. Or, to be more precise, it is the only major holiday that has resisted commercialization as long as one blatantly ignores the existence of Black Friday. Which I do.

Despite the fact that I had spent two weeks leading up to Thanksgiving thinking about how strange it would feel not to spend it at home, I still had a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that the fourth Thursday in November is not Thanksgiving in France. When I tried to teach the kids I babysit how to draw hand turkeys they were confused and a little suspicious. “How does that look like a turkey?” They asked, looking skeptical that someone who couldn’t even draw a turkey should be trusted with their safety. “Why do its feathers look like that?” Then, as if suspicious that I was exploiting them to make money on the Thanksgiving Crafts Black Market, “Who are you going to give these to?”

Quite apart from my inability to convince French children to celebrate a holiday they don’t understand, I was having a hard time convincing myself that I was actually in a place where no one cared about Turkey Day. Every time I looked in the window of a restaurant, I spent a few seconds feeling sorry for all of the people without a home cooked meal for the holiday before remembering that none of them thought it was a holiday. When I put off grocery shopping until the last minute, I kept worrying that the stores would be overrun, or that they might run out of key ingredients or close early.

After overcoming my unfounded fear of crazed hordes of procrastinating grocery shoppers, I made my way back to my woefully underequipped kitchen with all the ingredients for green bean casserole and the most expensive bottle of wine I’ve bought in France so far (four Euros – it was a big purchase).  The dish I made was the same one I have made every year for as long as I can remember; although this year was the first time I actually ate it. (After careful self-examination, I have been able to determine that the only reason I never tried it was to spite my mother – sorry Mom!)

With twenty friends gathered around several crooked tables and not quite enough chairs, with tiny American flags stuck into all of the baguettes, I had an unambiguously successful expatriate Thanksgiving. France even cooperated by launching its several Christmas Markets this week, with tents selling everything from giant slabs of chocolate to disgusting fair food. This allowed me to replicate my preferred method of Black Friday celebration (Coney dogs for the whole family!) with a hot dog served in a baguette bun, ordered from a French man who was clearly judging me for buying what he did not consider to be a valid food item.

An American in Paris: Bureaucracy by Annie White

An American in Paris: At Risk for Scurvy by Annie White

An American in Paris: Behind the Language Barrier by Annie White

Sometimes France looks like West Texas. | Photo by Annie White.

It is a sad truth of language acquisition – or at least language acquisition as I have been experiencing it for the past three months – that instead of mastering a new language while maintaining mastery of your mother tongue, you find yourself unable to speak any language coherently and live instead a life of perpetual lacunae. Rather than finding myself easily and consistently able to communicate in French and English, I am frequently stuck in a land between two languages. For example, the first time I thought about that sentence it started: “Instead of trouving myself easily and toujourly able to speaker en French and English”…

I run into my biggest language-mix problems when I am thinking in one language and attempting to speak in another. If I spend the day with Anglophones or enjoy a reflective stroll by myself, I tend to think in English. You know, because it’s the only language I actually speak. If I am suddenly confronted with a French-speaker – they’re everywhere, it’s madness! – it takes me a minute to switch gears, and I often ask them to repeat themselves.

This is invariably greeted with a smug smile and a thickly accented “Oh, I understand. You are American. I speak English.” Which doesn’t seem so bad – in fact it seems pretty helpful, at first – except that in almost every case, even my deeply flawed French is superior to these well-intentioned (mildly condescending) attempts at English. Worse yet, many French people, upon realizing that they are talking to an English-speaker, will continue to speak in English, even if their English is nearly incomprehensible and even if I speak to them in French. This of course leads to many of my conversations in France proceeding like a sketch out of a bad comedy, in which two people converse in the absolute least practical way possible for several minutes, before parting ways without any idea of what has just happened to them.

Similarly, when I have had occasion to speak French all day, I find myself thinking in French. Which is not to say that I am France’s next great thinker. Usually, the thoughts I have in French are along the lines of “I am walking down the street. Now I am crossing the street. When I get home, I will eat a baguette.” Unfortunately, the fact that my French is childish does not stop it from confusing my English. I have recently found myself starting sentences in English and having to stop halfway through, having forgotten not only the English word that I was planning on using, but also its definition, French translations, and all synonyms. When this first started happening, I was unwilling to give up the fight and would stare off into space for a while, searching for a word I was no longer even totally sure existed. After several weeks of disheartening regression in my English skills, I have finally accepted that my poor confused brain has given up on interpreting the sounds that most people recognize as words, and has instead thrown up the white flag of surrender to the Language Gods, leaving me in the lurch.

An American in Paris: Behind the Language Barrier by Annie White

An American in Paris: You’re Welcome? by Annie White

An American in Paris: Homophones by Annie White

In other news, I finally went inside Notre Dame and it is, in fact, beautiful. | Photo by Annie White

Social awkwardness is part of the human condition. Some of us are more prone to it than others, to be sure, but no one escapes the menace entirely. I like to think that, after two decades of trial and error, I have reached a point in my life where I am able to go about my daily life without frequent embarrassment. I am an almost comically messy eater and I’m certainly not the most graceful person ever, but nobody’s perfect. In France, however, I have become the kind of person you avoid inviting to dinner parties and hide from if you see them on the Metro.

I blame the lion’s share of this newfound social ineptitude on my absolute least favorite part of French culture: the bisoux, the cheek-kiss greeting that is a vital part of polite behavior in most of Europe, France very much included. I have always been a big fan of a firm handshake upon meeting someone for the first time. This is a pretty universal practice in the US, and it’s hard to mistake the cues that lead to a handshake. If someone walks up to you with their hand stuck out, you aren’t going to think they’re going in for a hug. In France, you usually do the bisoux the first time you meet someone. But – and this is why I dread them so much – not always.

I can’t count how many times I have met someone, and then stood there awkwardly trying to decide if I am supposed to do the bisoux or not. Worse yet, if you happen to forget that you are supposed to kiss the right cheek first, you end up doing a supremely mortifying version of the “which way are you going to walk around the person you just bumped into” dance.  Of course, all of the perceived potential for bisoux-related disaster only makes it more obvious that I haven’t been in France long enough to forget my American distaste for physical contact, which probably makes the French people sorry they introduced themselves in the first place.

Even if I make it past the awkwardness of introductions without scaring my potential new friends off, I will likely find myself caught in the trap that is small talk in a foreign language. My French has improved significantly since I moved here, and I am easily able to navigate shopping, travel, school, and yelling at my phone service provider. Small talk presents a special challenge, though, because the whole point is that you’re not really paying attention. It is for communicating with people you don’t really know, and you talk about things that are relatively uninteresting and unimportant, because you don’t want to offend anyone.

I was recently talking to the grandfather of the kids I babysit and I was responding to most of things he said with “yes, that’s true” while allowing my mind to wander. This strategy appeared to be working for me, until I suddenly realized that I had responded to “I need to exercise more, I’m getting fat” with a strong affirmative. I backtracked, and he seemed to think it was all pretty funny, but I found myself longing for the company of Anglophones, were I would be able to daydream through silly conversations without calling anyone fat, and where I only ever offend people on purpose.

An American in Paris: At Risk for Scurvy by Annie White

An American in Paris: Thanksgiving by Annie White

An American in Paris: Parting Thoughts by Annie White

"The American Dream is the Planet's Nightmare." Seems to be a pretty common sentiment among random Parisians. | Photo by Annie White.

When I first moved to Paris, I had fantasies that my French would magically become flawless, that I would never get lost, that I would somehow be able to afford a fancy Parisian wardrobe, and that I would blend in with all the French people. Then I would sit in cafés drinking coffee by day and go to snooty wine bars by night. I had a whole thing planned out.

Of course, this is not what has happened. I don’t frequent cafés because I hate coffee and the waiters always laugh at me when I order hot chocolate. I did not buy a new Parisian wardrobe because, as it turns out, I like my old wardrobe just fine. I always get lost, and I usually don’t even get to finish introducing myself before whoever I am talking to asks me where I’m from. Also, in a cruel twist of fate, my Midwestern accent prevents me from pronouncing my name in a way that Francophones can understand. “Je m’appelle Annie,” I say. “Yani?” They say. “Annie,” I say, but this time with a fake British accent so it’s more like “Ahhnnie.” “But that’s a French name! Why didn’t you say so?”

My status as both an American and a student of Political Science means that most people I meet pounce on the opportunity to display their knowledge of American politics. I have had the unhappy task of trying to explain the primary process to several French acquaintances since I’ve been here, and they have all been completely taken aback by the prospect of a yearlong election cycle. I share the distaste of long elections, so I am usually able to bond with my new friends while discussing the horrors of Sarah Palin. However, the conversation inevitably turns to how the United States has single handedly (and perhaps even maliciously) destroyed the world economy. I usually take this opportunity to remind my conversation partner about Greece. This is often followed by an icy silence.

Political banter aside, it seems like many French people have burning questions about the American way of life that only I can answer. Most of the time, I really enjoy this exercise because it allows me to tell nice stories about my home and leave the not-so-nice parts out. Someone asked me to explain Thanksgiving to them, and I said it was a celebration in which we remembered the kindness of the Native Americans who saved the Pilgrims from starving by teaching them how to farm.

Of course, if you place Thanksgiving in the broader historical context of the systematic oppression and extermination of Native Americans, it’s not such a nice of a story. But I love Thanksgiving and my French vocabulary doesn’t include “systematic oppression and extermination,” so I chose to simplify. And now, there is a French man walking around who used to think Thanksgiving was just Christmas for people who didn’t feel like waiting until December, and now he thinks it is a way for families to get together and celebrate the fact that none of us can make it on our own.

I think my work here is done.

An American in Paris: Thanksgiving by Annie White

An American in Paris: You’re Welcome? by Annie White

An American in Paris: Parting Thoughts by Annie White

Just one example of things I have found while lost in Paris. | Photo by Annie White

It has occurred to me that despite having written six blogs about Paris, I have not expressed any of the things I actually like about being here.  So despite the fact that complaining is one of my favorite things to do, I have decided to dedicate the next four hundred words to the City of Love’s abundant charms.

Perhaps the most obvious advantage Paris has over the other places I have lived is the food. In Boston last year, I developed a minor addiction to frozen chicken pot pies. They cost way more than they are worth, almost certainly contributed to my future heart attack, and they aren’t even that good.

In Paris, I eat fresh bread every day and buy vegetables from the market on Sundays. And if I feel like I need something that didn’t come out of the ground, I can go to the corner bakery and get the decadent pastry of my choosing. Today I rewarded myself for existing with a Religieuse, which is a massive profiterole with a delicious chocolatey filling and a macaron on top. I have my eye on something called a “Dome Chocolat Caramel” for the next time I hear the call of the Patissier.

I have also developed a great fondness for Nutella crêpes, which are served all the time but are best appreciated, in my experience, at two o’clock in the morning right before hopping on the Metro to go home. I have put serious thought into buying a crêpe griddle for my apartment next semester, just so I don’t have to give up this vice when I return to the States.

Paris’ metro system also far surpasses that of any other I have experienced. In Detroit, we have the People Mover, which goes almost literally nowhere and has been empty every time I have looked up at it from my car. In Boston, there is a good chance on any given day that an infant could crawl from West Campus to CAS faster than the T could get there. In Paris, I have never had to wait more than six minutes for a train. Better yet, there are Metro stops placed evenly throughout the city, so even when I am completely lost I know I will eventually find a train that will take me home.

Which brings me to my last favorite thing about Paris: I get lost just about every time I walk out my door. I realize that for some people, this would represent a horrifying lack of control over their lives, but I quite enjoy the accidental discoveries I have made this way, and there is nothing as nice as wandering around a beautiful city all day not worrying about where you are going.

Actually, one more thing. This week, I was walking around the Latin Quarter late at night and there was a group of young men standing in front of a bar, all of whom had just peed on the sidewalk my friends and I had to walk across. As we walked by, they sang, in unison, “Elles marchent dans la pipi” (They’re walking in the pee), which was, to me, hilarious enough to make the fact that I was walking through fresh urine slightly less disgusting.

An American in Paris: You’re Welcome? by Annie White

An American in Paris: Parting Thoughts by Annie White

An American in Paris: Being American in Paris by Annie White

On the bright side, Paris looks lovely at night. | Photo by Annie White.

This week, I was lucky enough to experience French culture at its finest. Unfortunately, the culture I was experiencing was France’s love of bureaucracy and unnecessary paperwork.

Everyone who moves to France on a visa is supposed to go to a medical exam within the first month or so of their stay, to prove that they don’t have TB. As my experiences with French immigration officials go, this one was pretty bearable. When I had to apply for my visa, the ordeal included crying in public, a four mile walk across Washington, DC in 100 degree heat, and a touch of heat-related illness followed by a very long nap. This time, at least I escaped without tears.

The morning started out with forty-five minutes in a tiny plastic chair waiting for my name to be called. I always enjoy hearing French people read my name, because they always laugh when they realize that it is White, like the color. I have had several people ask me if it is my real name. A few of them were holding my passport at the time. When they called my name, I was granted the privilege of going to sit in a different room, waiting to be called in for a medical evaluation.

I was eventually called into a room where a doctor took my height and weight, asked me to read a couple of sentences in French, and asked me not if I was pregnant, but if I was waiting for a baby. At this point I was tempted to respond that in fact yes, I was waiting for a baby and had no idea what was taking it so long. Maybe there was a strike on the metro. I thought better of this when I imagined the mountain of paperwork that would result from joking about pregnancy with a doctor in the immigration office.

I was then asked to stand behind a line of tape and read an eye chart. I have been aware for several months now that my contact prescription is less than perfect, and I was completely incapable of reading one of the lines. I made up a few letters, and the doctor told me I was wrong. I made up a few more, and he said no again. I opened the eye that was supposed to be closed, took a step forward, squinted, and read the line. The doctor gave an assenting nod and told me to go sit back down.

After another hour of waiting (during which the group of BU students I was with was hushed sternly after an apparently unwelcome outbreak of laughter), a chest x-ray, and another half hour of waiting I was presented with a misspelled sticker to put in my passport. When I told the woman behind the desk that Anna has two n’s, not one, she looked very flustered and ran off to talk to her supervisor. She came back and told me that if I didn’t care, she didn’t care either, so I allowed her to affix the offending sticker to my passport and walked out of the building more convinced than ever that the whole exercise was designed solely to waste the time of visa holders while ensuring full employment for all the doctors of France.

An American in Paris: You’re Welcome? by Annie White

An American in Paris: Behind the Language Barrier by Annie White

An American in Paris: Being American in Paris by Annie White