Things I Did Get Over

Or why after 5 years living in France I eat mayonnaise-dipped fries, slowly, while wearing no makeup.

I spent a long weekend away as the sole American amongst a gaggle of seven French folks and it wasn’t even weird. (At least it wasn’t for me, I hope it wasn’t for them.)

I wasn’t confused when every imaginable breakfast option was brought to the table, four different types of bowls and cups, five varieties of carbs, endless supplies of jams and dairy products. I wasn’t befuddled when we spent all of breakfast discussing lunch, the following two hours acquiring supplies for lunch, an hour cooking lunch, and an hour slowly eating it in discussion of dinner. I didn’t panic when everyone was suddenly ready to leave the house without any beautifying, coiffing, or accessorizing. I wasn’t annoyed that everyone magically knew the schedule, the correct order to eat foods, the only way to make a vinaigrette, because I knew these things too.

This hard-earned victory in my ongoing project of French integration wasn’t just due to familiarization. It also had to do with being un-bugged by things that used to bug me mercilessly. I would never have deigned to leave the house without a proper outfit five years ago. The crowded breakfast table that somehow still doesn’t add up to a balanced meal used to incur my wrath. Yet it seems that some of the obstacles, annoyances, and everyday frictions that I swore I’d never accept…maybe I—I who never got over a thing in my life—did in fact get over them, to the point of embracing them.

Since last week I aired out my France non-negotiables, it is now incumbent upon me to alternate to a France appreciation post to balance out my karma. Or more accurately, a how-I-came-to-appreciate-certain-things-in-France post. Also, just in case the Direction Générale des étrangers en France is reading this they can see that I love it here, I’m so integrated, et j’ai actuellement un niveau B2-ish en Francais. Maybe down to a level B1 if I’m uncaffeinated or hungover.

Sadly, many of you will scroll past this as you prefer the actual tea to the positivi-tea, but oh well. Alas: a list of things I did get over after a few years living in France.

The Long Dinner

I always enjoyed the long dinner in theory on my visits to France, but in practice I was fighting with every fibre of my being to stay awake. My body and organs were not acclimated to sitting still so long, ingesting so slowly, making a plate of food stretch beyond ten minutes. I was annoyed at the slow and polite serving process, enraged at having to wait for the conversation to end before the critical exclamation of “bon app!” released my fork upon the meal before me. I was also awful at pacing myself through entrees, plat, cheese, fruit, dessert and instead would go all-in on my main and be too stuffed to enjoy the rest. Not that I’d skip them, no; I’d still eat each one but very uncomfortably.

I think it was around year three when I noticed that my husband was finishing his food faster than I was. I no longer had to remind myself to chew more slowly to avoid sitting with an empty plate as my in-laws savored bite after bite. Most critically, I noticed sometimes that I’d be lost in the conversation and would forget to eat. Which brings me to my next point…

Slow Restaurant Service

Ask me about how my meal is one more time and I’ll tell you it would be great if only you’d leave me alone. I’ve not only adjusted to the slow/no restaurant service in France, I now love it. If I need something, I’ll tell the waiter. I will no longer hope that by osmosis they will divine my needs and fulfill them like some fairy godparents of the table. If I am not in need, they’ll leave me alone to gab with my friends. This is an efficient and logical arrangement, especially once you get used to having to signal and coordinate with the wait staff, which is painful at first for an American.

I realized I got used to this when American friends and family would visit and be visibly shocked at how long it takes to order, to get small cups of water, to get the check. These gaps in service used to signal failure of the restaurant. Now they’re welcome stages for conversation, the deeper the better.

I once had brunch with three French folks back in 2015, long before moving to France. I recall them being dumbfounded by a “rude” waitress who wouldn’t leave us alone, while I felt like the attentiveness was quite professional. By contrast, at a more recent dinner in LA I wanted to punt a waiter who checked in on us six times during a meal that lasted about 40 minutes. I’d manage two bites of food before this guy was back asking to serve me in some way, then boom, the whole meal was done and I had to pay him 20% for the bother. I recall being bummed at the brevity of the dinner, feeling like the waiter wanted us out; how was I supposed to meaningfully catch up with my friends over one hastily served course? What a change ten years makes.

Halloween

Our first Halloween in France broke my heart as well as an 11 year streak of homemade costumes. The FOMO upon seeing my friends back home devise their costumes and attend parties was terrible, especially with not a party or decent costume to be found in all of Paris. And then year after year the FOMO subsided until the year I felt relief at not having to think up and design a costume let alone find a party worthy of it. JOMO. I’m still always so proud and inspired by the enthusiasm and cleverness of American Halloween costumes; the nested references, the commitment to the bit. But I’ve enjoyed not having to fashion a french toast costume for a husband who doesn’t even want to dress-up in the first place.

Low-To-No-Makeup

I used to be relatively low-maintenance in LA when it came to makeup, not because I didn’t need it, but because I’m kind of lazy. Still, I wouldn’t leave the house without a light smattering of concealer, eyes, lips, brows, contour, cheeks, not to mention hair that was straigtened then re-curled, and a full outfit. Just the LA basics.

But after five years in France, I can’t believe I ever spent 10 minutes on makeup let alone on getting ready. I haven’t worn mascara since the last time I attended a wedding. I only do eyeliner when I’m going to dinner with friends whom I know will look fabulous so I figure I should at least try a little so I don’t feel like a chicken nugget amongst swans. I recently stopped doing my hair entirely and have received more compliments on it than when I used to actually try.

I believe this change happened gradually after internalizing what I was seeing around me: women with very little makeup on. Any time I went out with a full face, I felt odd at having committed the sin of trying too hard, or more precisely, appearing to have tried at all. Better to look mediocre and as if you barely tried. Even better to look great AND like you didn’t try at all.

I’m encouraged to know that this change isn’t just my own laziness slowly taking over my face; most of my American friends who have moved to France have noticed they also use much less makeup here. Not that there’s anything wrong with makeup, I love it, it’s fun! But it’s also so convenient to just walk out the door bare-faced and plain-browed.

Construction in our neighborhood that is NOT stressing me out.

Constant Construction

Okay, yes, no one is going to ever be at peace with the banging of concrete rattling your bones as you try to work from home. The constant construction in Paris just plain sucks, but I’ve found that I don’t dread it like I once did. In fact, now I look forward to the fact that it’s usually going to beautify or improve something in my neighborhood.

We live near Place Félix-Éboué which is currently being totally demolished to add more plants, spaces for pedestrians and bikes. It’s an awful mess and will be for more than a year, but I noticed I’m more pumped about the potential for the place than I am bummed at the disorder. When I see construction gear arrive, instead of thinking “shit, this is my life now” I’m now kind of happy? Optimistic for the possibilities dans la rue? If more bulldozers means more bike lanes, I’m in.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

Bad Tortillas

The lack of good tortillas in France—maybe in all of Europe—used to chafe my very soul. I couldn’t imagine living for an extended period in such a wasteland of crumbly tacos and hole-y burritos.

Then one day my freezer cache of Super A tortillas ran out and I didn’t have a trip to LA booked and I had to just—deal. I found a tortilla connect via Latino Market or Mexicoeur, even my favorite epicerie, Sabah. None of their options are both high quality and low price, as a tortilla should be, but they are close enough for me to no longer live in a panicked, tortilla scarcity mentality.

No Heels

In LA I was 5’6” on the regular or 5’7” on special occasions. Maybe even 5’8” when we would wear platformed, heeled booties to the Cha Cha Lounge in 2011. Now I’m strictly 163 centimeters a.k.a. 5’4” no matter where I go and I guess that’s fine. And no, it’s not because I’m old, it’s because there’s a lot less high-heel wearing in Paris, happily. Lord knows I tried it many a time in late 2019, but then my feet would be in agony by the time I even arrived at my Metro stop. And if I was going to a dinner party at someone’s home I’d be asked to remove my filthy high heels, full of Parisian detritus, thus ruining the silhouette of my outfit and positive feelings about my appearance.

So I had to learn to dress for flats to save my foot bones and also my self esteem. It was painful at first, that lack of aesthetic pain, but now I can’t even believe I used to totter around on heels every day of my life. I’ve given up on looking three inches taller than I am, oh well.

Smoke Everywhere

We all know it’s bad for everyone, I’m not debating the badness. I used to call both of my smoker grandmas “butt heads” to their faces thanks to all of the aggressive anti-tobacco propaganda ads in the ‘90s. But I have gotten used to and don’t fret over all of the cigarette smoke at cafes. It’s just there. It was there before I was there. It’s less there than it used to be. It will be less and less there as time goes on. At least it’s outside and not inside. If I don’t like it I can move. I’m at peace with it.

Mayonnaise

This one will probably piss everyone off more than the cigarette smoke. I like mayonnaise now, I’m a mayonnaise person. I used to leave mayonnaise out of tuna salad or sandwiches specifically because I didn’t want my hand to accidentally touch the inside of the jar and get some on my hand, gross. Now I actually dip my fries in it and have two varieties in the refrigerator.

I will say that I think the recipe is different, potentially better in France. If I’m stateside I still won’t touch the stuff; it’s somehow more gelatinous and sturdy which I continue to find suspicious. Don’t even get me started on Miracle Whip.

Quick Hits

• Stores frequently closed: I don’t want to work, why should shop owners?

• Stores never stocked: logistics is hard, why would Monoprix have exactly what I need?

• Amazon is slow: my punishment for even using Amazon

• Every Asian restaurant is a Chinese/Japanese/Vietnamese/Thai combo: they’re just catering to an audience who loves nems and pad thai and sushi

• Old ladies cut me in line: I’m tired of being angry at them, let them cut if it’s so important to them

• Lack of hot sauce: I bring my own

What’s the Point?

If you’re still reading, the point is that a human can get used to anything over time, even mayonnaise. For once I’m not joking; it’s kind of a beautiful thing to be able to perceive and acknowledge that my Grinchy ass evolved a little. Even I, the most stubborn and taciturn and judgmental person you’ll ever meet, can learn to appreciate slow service and frizzy hair. And it doesn’t take much effort either; I, for example, resisted this evolution at every turn, yet it happened anyways and I’m better for it.

…Except for when it comes to public urination or metro door crowders. We can check in again after another five years to see if I’ve changed my position on those but I doubt it. We’ve got to hold some truths to be self-evident, you know?