my first time

The talk of the smoking ban has me feeling a touch nostalgic for my first trip to Paris.

I had never been on a plane before. Funk Family Vacations were car-only affairs. And here I was, seventeen, passport in hand, and headed to Paris.

First flight. First passport. My first time.

It was a 10-day trip intended to be educational. We would spend five days in Paris living with a family, immersing ourselves in French culture and acting as mini ambassadors of American culture (i.e., How much did I love the NBA? What is going to happen in upcoming seasons of Days of Our Lives? What do you mean the Mississippi River and the Appalachian Mountains are nowhere near one another geographically?) and five days with our American class, bouncing through the Loire River Valley, admiring (at times defacing) chateaux and cathedrals, drinking wine, and getting lost in previously unknown French towns.

The days spent with my class are a bit of a blur. A collection of snapshots in my mind. Snap! The bus passing the Arc de Triomphe and my heart skipping a beat as I realized for the first time that I Was There. Snap! Being lost in Blois. Snap! Keying my name on to a chateau in an act of uncharacteristic rebellion, subconciously trying to leave a bit of myself in the country. And snap! My classmates smoking Cuban cigars in the street and drinking wine in the hotel room in Tours.

It was in the home and cafes that I made my true memories–memories with developed plots and characters and dialogue. How well I can recall that first meal. I had never eaten a meal consisting of more than two courses before. How was I to know that the bread and salad would be followed by spaghetti which would be followed by beef and chicken which would be followed by cheese (yes! an entire course of cheese!!) which would be followed by dessert and a glass of wine. It was a Sunday at lunch in France. The meal took two hours to eat. I was jet lagged and overwhelmed and full after the spaghetti.

My host was a high school student named Melanie, a young woman whose English was luckily far better than my French. She was my window to French culture. She took me to the market and the Champs Elysee and the Louvre. She introduced me to LU cookies, which I still buy just to remember those few days. I attended classes with her. Classes that took smoke breaks–a necessity for students and teachers alike. And classes that operated on a schedule similar to that of American colleges, permitting students to leave the campus for long stretches and spend their afternoons in cafes, mixing coffee and cigarettes between classes.

I should mention that it was my first coffee, too.

And my first coffee was followed by a endless stream of them. I think the caffeine was the only way I survived the jet-lag and French language induced exhaustion that seemed to follow me around. I quickly discovered that the cafe was the only natural way to begin and/or end any event during the course of the day.

I only took a few pictures on this first trip. I spent most of my time overwhelmed, self-conscious of my awkward teenage appearance in a country of beauty and elegance, and in awe of my surroundings. But those hours passed at the dinner table and in cafes simply enjoying food and drink and fellowship were more than snapshots–in my mind or on a 4 x 6 card. No matter how many times I go back, those first few days in Paris will forever stand in my mind as a lesson in the foundation of French culture. Here’s hoping that no number of bans ever change that completely.

bise x 3

This map is making its way around the blogs. And it’s simply too brilliant to not share.

My first time in Paris, I stayed with a family of five–mom, dad, three daughters. About two of them could speak some English. The father was not one of them. He didn’t speak to me for the entirety of my stay under his roof until he had safely returned me to my American French class. As I was bidding father and daughter goodbye, he drew upon his old English lessons to give me a lesson in cheek-kissing. ”Here we do three times,” he tells me holding up the corresponding number of fingers. And I smile my understanding and appreciation for this cultural lesson.

And now I pass this cultural lesson on to others: Behold, a map for anyone who has ever wondered what the appropriate number of cheek kisses might be…

my paris

A few weeks ago, after reading Ruth Reichl’s Comfort Me With Apples, I added a post about how we each have our own Paris. Since then I’ve been giving a lot of thought to mine. My Paris has grown with me, evolving and maturing with the eyes that I see it through. I’m hoping to dedicate a post to each of My Paris’ in the month of December.

Paris #1: Living with a family in the suburbs. An awkward teenager in a world of beauty and high fashion. My first coffee. Meals that included a course just for cheese. French language induced headaches.

Paris #2: Independent. A fresh high school graduate, very lost—literally and figuratively, no doubt. Dashing from museum to monument to church (and repeat), trying to take it all in. Clinging to any piece of Americana I could find (Hard Rock Café, TGI Fridays) after weeks of everything foreign.

Paris #3: An apartment above a violin shop. Shakespeare & Co. The parks. Old friends. A tiny kitchen. Meals consisting of pastries from the patisserie across the street. Quiet afternoons wandering and writing.

Paris #4: A perfect hotel room in the Latin Quarter with a loved one. Lounging on park benches, picnicking at the Eifel Tower, brunches and dinners, watching, watching, watching . . . the people, the city, the river. . . my paris.

Je m’appelle Emilie Jolie

The first time I went to Paris, it was on a couple week’s notice. I dug out my passport, called up friends who have an apartment in the 11eme, and cashed in frequent flier miles. I spent a week in parks, eating what appeared to be manna from heaven, seeing the nooks and crannies of Paris right along with that big famous tower, all with a very good family friend (who also happened to be a handsome male a tad bit older than I) (with whom I’m very good friends now). The stuff dreams are made of, basically. On the flight back, I vowed to return for longer, and soon.

A year later, I did. I studied architecture, language, impressionism, and the art of sitting in cafes and getting lost and found and lost again in the rues. I wondered which park Joni Mitchell meant when she sang, “sitting in a park in Paris, France.” I ate more manna and had weekly Place des Vosges date with my friend Vanessa.

A year later, I went again, this time with a boyfriend who had never been. There was sorbet eaten under the hot sun. There was a romantic meal at a table on the sidewalk in Montmartre. There was kissing in gardens.

What I’m getting at here is this: Loving Paris has always come easy. It’s been a few years since I’ve been, but it continues to come easy. So when Katie started this blog, I was thrilled. And when I offered to guest post, she up and made me a contributor. Hoo boy! Or as they say in Paris: Voila!

I was christened Emilie Jolie by a bunch of school-age boys in France. It’s from a line from a French song, “Emilie et le grand oiseau.” When I was studying in Paris, I spent a week as a camp counselor (une animatrice) at a Learn to Speak English camp. The idea was to see if kids picked up language better, or differently, if it was in a recreational setting, as opposed to school. I was to speak only English to my charges, 8 boys between the ages of 8 and 12. How much English do you think was spoken? None, that’s right. The boys got away with speaking French though, because they knew how to charm me: They’d sing “Je m’appelle Emilie Jolie” whenever I’d come around. (“My name is Pretty Emily”) And really, who was I to aruge with that?

parisian inspiration

Lately, I’ve been clamoring to get my hands on anything French–memoirs, cookbooks, music, movies, news. My amazon.com searches are suddenly all centered on France or food, preferably both. I’ve even been contemplating picking up the skill of embroidery just so I can add petite Eiffel Towers to future sewing creatings. 

And so, voila! “I Wish I Was In Paris” was born while sitting in an impersonal cubicle an ocean away from the City of Lights.