On Markets: Picard

I am a big nerd, and I love nothing more than going to the market: be it the open-air farmers’ market or the plain-ol’ grocery store. (As you can imagine then, Paris is my idea of heaven).

I take extreme pleasure in keeping a stocked kitchen at all times, to the point where I feel antsy and nervous if I see my supplies start to dwindle. For this I blame my mother, who instilled in me an ever-present need to 'hunt and gather,' as they say. And as Momma Bear taught me, a key part of a properly stocked kitchen is a properly stocked freezer.

In Paris, I handle this in part by hopping over to Picard every once in a while. Picard is the market chain specializing in frozen goods: from the humble choux-fleurs en fleurettes (cauliflower) to the slightly more up-market frozen soups or velouté glacé (concombre à la menthe being my particular favorite) or even the ever-present mainstay of French patisserie, the macaron. (Frozen macarons? Mon dieu!)

Don’t mind the sterile-looking décor - the place has everything and is seriously a lifesaver when it comes to quick and easy nibbles for a last-minute apéro.

But one of my favorite parts is that there, tucked amongst the sections for vegetables, fish, desserts and the like, is this:
 

Only in France would you find a dedicated section for les escargots (snails).

And you’ve just got to love that.

Bonjour mes amis!

Parisian rooftops framed by a late summer sky. That never gets old.

“Oh my god, you live in Paris? Eeeeeeek, that must be so AMA-ZING!”

“So, have you dated French men? Gosh, I bet they’re SO romantic.”

“Do you wake up every morning to buy a baguette and croissants from the local boulangerie?”

“Three years in Paris - you must be completely fluent in French, huh?”

Give or take the random response here and there, above pretty much summarizes the comments I hear whenever I tell someone back home that I live abroad  in Paris.

It’s not that I don’t understand.

Some people are hard-wired to love this city.  I myself love this city. Always have – even before I first had the chance to visit. It’s stunningly beautiful. There is a palpable charm. Some days, when I’m feeling pretty feisty, I look around and I think…hey, world! Look at me! I speak FRENCH! I have real French friends! I have a French job! AND a grown-up apartment! At those moments I start to fell almost, ALMOST Parisian. (Well, Parisian-ish).

But then again, you have your moments. The other kind of moments. The woman at the bank doesn’t understand that you need to send a wire transfer back to the U.S. because you slightly mispronounced the word virement and now you feel embarrassed and humiliated in front of the entire line of people waiting behind you.

It’s been rainy and grey for months on end, and your colleagues are all leaving for three-week vacations in sunny Corsica, but you’re staying behind because, um hello? you have a mountain of grad school loans to pay back.

Your lovely Parisian friends invite you out to dinner in a big group, but you just are not feeling it that night and – because you’re already kind of tired – your brain just won’t function in French, and you stare blankly, mutely at your darling friends while they effortlessly make jokes and banter in a language that you will never, EVER master.

Again, I love Paris. I have worked hard to have the opportunity to live here. Parisians, though they may appear to be slightly cold on the outside, are truly warm, emotional and fiercely loyal and welcoming once you’ve cracked the surface.

Yes, I live in Paris and it is (often) AMA-ZING!

Why yes, I have dated Frenchmen and (some) are romantic!

Though I sometimes dart out of my apartment in the morning to grab a baguette for a quick tartine, time constraints make a stop at the boulangerie more of a weekend thing.

And while I can now hold my own in a French conversation and I no longer embarrass myself on a daily basis, I am not what you would call fluent. Fluent-ish? (Le sigh.)

This blog is my way to fall back in love with my city. Going on living here for three years, it’s easy to live here (or anywhere for that matter) and get settled. A place just starts to feel like home. You stop thinking and appreciating and you just get on with your daily life. Things that you used to find endearing start to annoy you. You stop looking around with appreciation. Roadblocks that you used to find charming you now just find to be, well…roadblocks. You fall into a routine.

I want a way to remember why I love this city so much. I want to recapture the wonder I felt when I first stepped off the plane at CDG (though with less panic-induced nausea, thankyouverymuch). I want to actively re-experience the reasons why I’ve fought so hard to live in this city, and why I want it to be my long-term home.

Like nearly everything in life, I also believe that all things should be approached with humour. And so this blog shall, too.

But I promise this will not be what I call an “I <3 Paris” blog, one of those shiny happy blogs written by an expat who seemingly spends his/her days lounging about the Jardin du Luxembourg, nibbling on Pierre Hermé macarons.  I am not that girl.

I mean, it’s not that I haven’t done that (and not that I don't want to do that!) But this will be more of a straight-up, humorous and (hopefully?) interesting look at what it’s really like to live as an expat in the City of Lights: once you’ve already been to the Eiffel Tower, had your fair share of café terrasses and are tired of the red wine.

(Gotcha on the last part! No person, neither Frenchie nor expat, ever gets tired of the red wine).

So let’s get to it, shall we?

Bisous mes enfants x