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C'est ma vie
Soymilk (American version)
Perhaps the most surprising thing about my daily life in Paris is how much it resembles my daily life in New York. That is to say, a video of me going about my day here would look quite different from the same video in New York. The streets I walk down, my metro stop, the restaurants I go to, and the classrooms I sit in are all uniquely Parisian. But by some mysterious and highly discreet means, the various needs, tendencies, and little compulsions I carry around at home have followed me here.
I am sure there are those who, swept up in the newness and excitement of a new culture, throw habit to the wind and create a new mode of being for themselves. For better or for worse, that’s not me. The fact, for example, that delectable pastries fill the case of every patisserie I pass in Paris, has not altered my not-so-sweet tooth. I like cereal with sliced fruit and soymilk in the morning. Honest! Just as I did in my family’s home and I do now in my New York apartment, I relish the 30-40 minutes I spend brewing my coffee and assembling my breakfast. I like pouring the hot water carefully through the Melitta filter (okay, yes, I brought my own coffee filter to France…), inhaling the coffee’s aroma, and deciding what combination of cereal, yogurt, nuts, and fruit I’ll put together. And, despite many differences in French and American grocery selection, I’ve been pleased to discover that the breakfast items here are quite comparable. (In fact, credit where credit’s due…the yogurt here is better!) So, while I always admire the artfully presented pastries I pass on the street, I’m still content with my own breakfast routine.
The way I use my time in Paris is also much the same as in New York: I find I need a certain amount of time in my apartment to do boring things like wash dishes and answer emails, a certain amount to do yoga, bike, or jog, and a certain amount to talk and laugh with friends. Not so surprisingly, just as in New York I end up with little time to paint my nails (joke), watch TV (never!), or write my IAPC (that one’s gonna be a problem…). How strange, and yet how obvious, that I’m actually the same old me I was halfway around the globe.
Like De Botton, who came to the same realization as he moodily strolled down a beach, it turns out I “inadvertently brought myself with me” on my travels (Art of Travel, 19).
