Hey there, everyone. It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? We’ve spent the past few months house hunting, buying, moving, and organizing, in between work and several trips (more on those in upcoming posts), so this spring and beginning of summer has been one big blur. I keep reaching out to grab a hold of time and let each day last a teensy bit longer, but it always evades my grasp.
If you’re like me, scrolling through your Instagram on a Saturday morning, chances are you’re going to come across at least half a dozen French-inspired snapshots. There’s usually some variant of the millenial “blush pink” color featured in the girl’s clothes or accessories, and a background of a boulangerie, cafe or even, for the less subtle ‘grams, the Eiffel Tower.
Sometimes there’s a bit of backlash over these wannabe Parisian’s, scoffing at our bougie fascination with Chanel and macarons. Other American tourists bemoan the French snobbery and unfriendliness. My response: get over yourself. Paris is perfect, has been for centuries, and you’re just jealous. Also, stop being so loud and obnoxious with your deafening whines about having to walk everywhere and how America is the greatest country on Earth (manners much?), your insistence on wearing neon shorts and flip flops, and your staunch insistence on ordering super-sized hamburgers when you’re in the culinary capital OF THE WORLD, and maybe the Parisians will be nicer to you. Just a thought.
My love for le Francaise began early, when my parents came home from their own trip to France and brought back both a French and English copy of the original Madeline. At the time I was so young I couldn’t read either copy, but the illustrations of the twelve little girls strolling by the Eiffel Tower and the tiger in the zoo are still seared into my memory. The pages of the books became worn over the dozens and dozens of times I poured through the books at the kitchen table.
As a well-trained Southerner, I always maintained the habit of saying yes ma’am or sir to my dental school faculty and patients. Instead of the reaction I was used to back home (which was no reaction at all, since saying ma’am or sir anywhere south of Maryland is about as automatic as saying “hello,”), I would often receive a confused and borderline offended glance and a high-pitched “What did you just say to me?!”