Exchange student who stole jam

I’ve been here for more than two months now and so more and more I’m soaking up French culture and becoming more susceptible to its nuances. Like now, I’ll never enter a shop without a big cheery “Bonjour!!!!” because it’s French culture. They will not smile at you on the streets or even acknowledge your presence in the tram, ohh but you enter a patisserie or epicerie or even an apparel shop and you will get a smiley cheery Bonjourrrrr.

Oh and the cheek kiss…hehehe…has its perks. Meet a hot brother in the hallway and you just go, ‘o Allo, Olivier,’ mwah mwah, and the smell of his cologne doesn’t leave you till 30 minutes afterwards. Yep, perks perks. But it took a while for me to get used to it, this whole kissing on sight business. At first it flustered me a little bit and I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands for example. As in, was the polite way holding on to the shoulder? Was I to put my hands behind me, up in the air, I didn’t know. One day, I think I gripped my host father’s waist while greeting him, because he gave me SUCH a nervous look afterwards, oops!

And oohhhh these people in these parts know how to get their fashion ON. They live in a fashion autocracy in which Prada swaddled Beelzebubs sit in sky-high offices and determine the daily fashion actions of the beings beneath their windows. Dare you (who wishes to be considered fashionable) go against what is ‘a la mode’, like wear green when it is not in… you suffocate in your own gaffe and when you behold the grey and purple garbed hot french girls, it is you yourself who silently puts aside the green and walks into a shop for a color a la mode. The colors of the season are dark purple, off beige, black, dark gray, and deep yellow and these are pretty much the ONLY colors you will find in the shops.

The fashion fluctuates easily though. Earlier on in the fall for the ladies, it was all about the belts, you had to cinch that waist! And the brothers were rocking the well fitting jean and stylish sweater. Now in the winter, the ladies are sporting the baby doll a-shaped coat and for the guys scarves are the necessary finishing touch. And Euro-afro fashionly, you know that hair is important. The look for elle, is half braids, water curled with brown/chestnut streaks, the streaks being the must of the season. And for some of my African brothers, the perm of the 80’s is back!! And ahhh they are so on top of it too o, no undergrowth, its all freshly touched up and pulled back in a sleek ponytail or shaped up in a professional perm cut, haha. But to be fair, that’s mostly the do of confused youth born and bred here in France. African brothers proper proper, are sporting a one to two-inch afro, mussed up and left wild. A good number are also sticking to the down-cut clean-shaven look. And I have noticed all of this because people watching is my new pastime on my 30 minutes ride to school and 30 minutes back, all during rush hour.

And also here in Stras it’s all about the bread. Morning, afternoon, evening: bread, bread, bread. But… there is bread and there is bread. Once we read an article in class about how good baguette is rare and since then I have been on a maniac quest for the perfect baguette. It has to be crusty but not hard. Its inside should be fluffy but not light. It shouldn’t be too salty. It should chew just right in your mouth… you know, crunch, crunch… a couple more crunches… swallow, going down your throat smoothly, no scratching, no chafing. Yes, that’s good baguette. My host mom once asked me if there were bakeries all over in America where she could get her daily baguette. I said no and she replied miserably that ‘alors, I will be very sad when I visit America.’ So you see, bread equals joy in these parts, so value it and the next time you bite a piece, celebrate, be happy, smile and say cheese!!

Anyway, I have come to REALLY to love my bread and one more than one occasion I’ve gone almost 30 minutes out of my way for good baguette. But one day however, this love of bread lead my into sin…

I had had an awful morning. I woke up at 7 am so I could be in class by 8.30. And I barely made it through my four-hour language class because I had such wretched cramps. By the time class was over I was on something else. I felt miserable, I wanted to sleep and I was craving some good bread for my sick sick stomach. So I quickly consulted my mental maps of good bakeries, picked out the closest best, hopped on the tram and got myself a stick of scrumptious oven fresh bread. Ooooo it was so good!!! I couldn’t help myself, I stuffed my face hungrily on the tram oblivious to the many weird stares. And then suddenly it struck me… how great the warm bread would taste slathered in my host mums AMAZING homemade apple jam oouuu. And as soon as I got that idea into my head, I just HAD to have some so I continued on the tram home, and planned what the best way to procure the jam would be as I knew the kitchen at home would be locked. Suddenly I remembered that my host mum stored the bulk of the jam in the pantry downstairs and so like a woman with a mission I sprinted determinedly home. You should have seen me go haha, I was better than a professional athlete in an obstacle race as I hopped over those slow-walking pram-pushing mothers.

I got home, struggled with my key at the door, flung it open and made a beeline for that pantry door. I laid my greedy grubby fingers on the bottle, savored the feel of it in my hand for a moment and then picked it up. I galloped up the stairs to my room, my hair flying in all directions: I felt like Black Beauty in the wild, the wind in my mane. Then I got into my room. I plopped on the floor and took that first bite. Ooooooo glorious I cannot even describe it, my taste buds were sent on different heights of pleasure. Amazing amazing, that bread, the jam…then… then I realized that I was..I was..I was like a common thief! I had just stolen a whole bottle of jam, (because my family does not provide lunch and I had not asked permission) and that meant I had to confess.

Before dinner I guiltily returned the bottle to the pantry, and went into the dining room for confession blabbering in a stream of incoherent French my tale of how my hunger had led me into sin. My stepmother responded that it was not a big deal and then she walked out of the room. I was so confused, was she angry? Then she returned form the pantry with the jam I had stolen and handed it to me. She said I might as well have the whole bottle…ohhw, talk about heaping coals on my head. I was soooo ashamed. And I couldn't help thinking about how I would probably become a family legend, a tale told at Christmas of that exchange student who was a jam thief! It was with a heavy hand that I carried that jam out to my room, I felt like Eve walking out of Eden apple in hand, shoot!! Since then though, I have enjoyed that bottle of jam with some good bread, couldn't let it go to waste you know!!

The past couple of weeks have been sooo much fun though OMG, will tell you all about it soon. I was in Paris for 10 days and I had the time of my life living it up in Gay Paree. Sooooo many stories….will update soon.

And can't forget…..Obaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaama!!