Has it already been a week since my arrival in Paris? C'est pas vrai ! Hard to believe. The week went by quickly except for the days when I was fighting both jetlag and a cold, definitely not a good combination.
I am finally feeling better and what I looked forward most today was to see my good friend Julien again. I first met Julien and his very elegant mother Martine two years ago, really a very nice family - as the French would say, super sympa. Julien invited me to his home in Bry Sur Marne, about 10 minutes by the RER (a network of trains) outside of Paris proper, for lunch with his girlfriend Hermine, Martine, and his uncle Pierre-Jean.
Europeans in general truly do not enjoy the luxury of large spaces as many Americans do. I guess I shouldn't complain about my 625 square-foot (58 m2) apartment when most of the apartments I've seen have been less than 50 m2.
Julien is a typical Frenchman, meaning he complains about everything, and I mean everything. He knows it too. Actually, I haven't heard him complain about Hermine yet, so perhaps not everything. He studied architecture and spent some time working as an architect, but now he does recruitment for an architectural firm. I think he enjoyed his current job initially, but not any more. For him, Paris is a depressing, cold city deprived of live and energy (at the same time depriving him of both these things). He longs to live in the mountains. If one day he moves there, maybe I'll visit him like Heidi. I wonder if I'll get to milk goats.
I had seen pictures of Hermine, but when I met her in person, I could see why JuJu was crazy about her. Neither he nor I can understand why she's with him. To each his (her) own, I suppose.
I told JuJu he should start a new career as a chef after tasting his cuisine. Just as an example of a Saturday French lunch (I know I've talked about food already, but you know how much I like to eat) - for entrée, we had bread (yes, a baguette) with one of my favorite discoveries from last trip - les rilletes. It's basically a mix of pork, duck, or goose, with lots of delicious animal fat; it is most often served as a pâté. The plat was a Braizilian fish stew (amazing) not too unlike a ratatouille. He calls it la moqueica de peixel. To finish things off, JuJu served for dessert a type of pudding with pears called un clafoutis aux poires. If I were a judge on Iron Chef (the original Japanese version, not the stupid American version), I would be using words like "ah, the subtle aroma of the fish blends perfectly with the delicate texture of the tomatoes, everything is just so good, I could eat this everyday."
After lunch, we all went to a nearby mall (centre commercial) to check out the French version of this American import. Not too different, except the parking spaces are much smaller here. We visited FNAC, the French equivalent to Borders, where I looked for "Le Petit Nicolas" by Sempé (children's literature). With just simple pictures, words, and sentence structures (we're talking fourth grade level here), Sempé hilariously depicts the lives of young French children.
Wanting me to read something more appropriate for my age, JuJu gave me Amélie Nothomb's "Métaphysique des Tubes." She is one of the hottest authors in France now, and apparently she too uses simple language that even I can understand. Simple is good, always very good for me. I guess I like books like "Le Petit Nicolas" and "Le Petit Prince" because I like the simple things that children experience, how the easiest things could seem so complicated to six-year-olds. At least that's my excuse for avoiding more "mature" (i.e., boring) topics like politics and the economy.
As an adult (yeah, I know I hardly behave like one), I can look at situtations that appear to be super complicated for kids and smile (actually, more like reading and laughing uncontrollably during work in between seeing patients) at the intricately constructed simplicity of their lives. By comparison, when I become wise at the age of 70, I will probably look back at my struggles now and smile at my own naiveté and ineptitude. And when I struggle with things at 70? Who's going to laugh at my mistakes?
I guess I can always do that myself.
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