overcoming my fear of opening the manual Metro doors by myself, getting lost a lot (but not enough), and applying what I'm learning about the Parisian day-to-day to my own life. Last week, I was busy walking the wrong direction in the Marais, one of the livelier sections of Paris, when I happened upon some inviting rose petals sprinkled on the sidewalk outside a restaurant door. Just lovely.
I really couldn't stop thinking about it, either. So when the sun came out a few days later, it reignited an idea I had while finding my way a few days prior.
That morning, I searched a few of my guides and then hopped on the train to Place de Madeline to shop one of the few marchés aux fleurs (flower markets) I could find. I had decided then that Aurélie, my friend and hostess for the first 3 weeks here, needed to walk in the door later that evening and be surprised with some roses that resembled the sun with which I was so in love that day. So, I took some orange tipped long-stems home and arranged them in a vase I decorated with the yellow twine I requested from the florist. I trimmed the blossoms, placed them so that 
they were the first thing Aurélie would see as she walked in, and, as a final touch, sprinkled the trimmed petals and leaves onto the (now very charming) welcome mat outside the apartment door! I was proud of my new, almost Parisian self, and Aurélie was as surprised as she was thrilled. A+, Nico. * * *
In other news, I'm discovering how American the rest of the world is and how American I really am, irrespective of how I think I act. Many Parisians speak English quite well, and about as many know American culture and history just the same. I suppose I was really hoping for a happy exchange of cultural norms but am finding I'm usually the one doing the learning. A French friend of mine explained it well when he said that American culture is really a second culture for most of the world. This, I guess, explains why I had such an informed conversation about les cougars with a (Frenchie) friend of mine the other day. Suffice it to say, we did not talk about wild cats.
Speaking of cats, I've been meaning to post a silly story I've been telling many of my friends here. It's about my first time making coffee in France, which doesn't intuitively have much to do with the feline species but almost certainly did when it was explained to me that American coffee is often referred to in France as pisse de chat (cat urine). Apparently, American coffee is a little weak and requires
more per pot than the average French one. My first morning here, I underestimated the strength of the coffee grounds and made it so strong that it stayed the same dark color even after adding cream. A little funny but definitely not potable. After a few genuine, nervous, and also self-deprecating laughs, I remade it all with fewer scoops, and it came out just fine.What also came out in better proportion was my sense of self as both a product of my imagination but also as a sum of my little, repetitive, American behaviors. My first time shopping for groceries, which was before my first time making coffee, I was searching for milk at one of the (rather small) super markets here. There was no % milk so I guessed at the type I bought. Adventurous enough, I thought. When I returned home, I recounted my 'wild' story to Aurélie, who giggled at me and explained that French milk only comes in 3 kinds: whole, skim, and half-skimmed (whatever that means). I suppose I could say something profound about how I felt about my 'self' after my milk shopping experience, but I think the coffee story does ok.
I told my new friend, Ben (one of the Kiddos), that in France it seems to be the little things that are very important. Whether it's always introducing yourself individually to each member of a group of strangers or making a nice looking, well-proportioned plate for yourself at one of only 3 meals (this is how, Aurélie says, the French stay thin), little things seem to be very important even in a large city like Paris.
I'm really liking my stay so far here, but it is certainly an effort on my part to be open to making many mistakes and looking confused and ridiculous. Strangely though, it's kind of nice to be reminded that you're not as smart as you used to think. Well, as long as you're making progress. And as long as it's not constant.
In that respect, though, I guess it really is the little things that are counting, because little by little, I'm finding out how to adapt, and at this same rate, am still surprising friends with flowers and taking milk in my damned good coffee.
