I've started this post a few times now, and in the process have become accustomed to the French coffee experience, a culture that requires taking time out to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee, where size really does not matter, and where paper cups are not a litter hazard. Of course, like any process of acculturation, it took me awhile to reach this level of cultural appreciation.
In my first week here, I asked my roommate where I could buy a travel mug in which to transport my coffee to class. I bought one in Australia, which served me very well during many late night study sessions. Anyone who has visited my office in Hamilton knows I always have one or two on my desk, and take one with me, like a security blanket, to class. Unfortunately, here in France, she had no idea where to get one. It's just not part of the coffee culture.
First, people really don't travel with coffee in France. In my two months here, I have only seen one person actually carrying a cup of coffee.
Instead, the French make a little cup to toss back with their baguette over petit dejeuner before work, they enjoy it after their hour-long (at least!) lunch break, sitting in the sun, sipping their little cups of java at an outdoor café, or they have it with dessert in cute little cups (see below). The extra large double-double from the takeout window at Tim Horton's is as foreign in France as....well, to be truthful, my accent.
"Le pannier" Marseille, France. November 2009
Yes, and the second difference is the size. On my first visit to the IUFM, we joined some of my supervising teachers for lunch, and everyone had their (what I thought of them then, anyway) miniature coffees. (Sidenote: wrong, I know, but for the first few days here I couldn't get over how silly men looked holding these tiny cups in their hands. Eventually I got used to it. European men have that talent, being attractive without having to be macho about it. Pointy toed shoes, fitted woolen winter coats, skinny jeans, scarves, scarves, scarves - all part of the male wardrobe here, and I love it).
One of the teachers, knowing I was from North America, told me to ask for mine "allongé", by which the barista just adds a little more water, making the coffee somewhat less strong. The fortitude of the coffee here is difference number three. We have a joke in our house. Daniela, from Germany, makes a brew thick enough to stand a spoon up in it. It really IS sludge when I clean out the pot. My ratio of water to her coffee is 3:1. She calls my attempts "dirty water" and doesn't even bother drinking it.
I am slowly learning this French culture of coffee, but sometimes am a bit slower in the morning pre-caffeine, which is why I wasn't thinking when, in my second week here, I offered to make a cup for our handyman at the same time that I made mine. When I passed him a great big mug of the stuff, he started laughing. It took me a minute to realize what the problem was: "It's too large!", he told me. I replied (yes, in French!) that it wasn't very strong, and after giving him the sugar bowl (of course he didn't need milk, again, silly me) he happily consumed the whole thing.
For the most part, French temper their strong, black beverage with sugar. It comes with your cup. The French do laugh about the English and their use of milk in the drink, which is interesting, considering one of their alternatives to the regular black is a noisette. This little gem, my new favourite, is made of the usual fort, café français, but with a little shot of foamed milk. It's the PERFECT mid-afternoon treat at a sidewalk café when I'm waiting for the shops to open up again after lunch (I may be learning the coffee culture but I am still not accustomed to shops closing for an hour or two mid-day. It makes my Christmas shopping a little more interesting, and I'm doing much more wandering and exploring this way as I pass the time waiting. Which really is the point isn't it?)
In the end, however, a girl does like to have the comforts of home every now and then. This is me after finding my first Starbucks in Paris (The only Starbucks shops to be found in France are in Paris, and, much like Vancouver, can be found on nearly every street corner. I just didn't know that at this time).
So what if the Canadians I was travelling with compared me the snooty American tourists who come to PEI expecting specialty coffee and really don't know what to do with Tim Horton's? After a month in France, I had been missing my familiar-sized, sugary sweet, takeaway North American beverage. With this image, forget for a minute that I'm in the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris, or that I'm surrounded by hoards of small, happy children doing cute child-like things like pushing boats in a pond and feeding the ducks. In my hand, I've got a caramel macchiato bigger than my fist. I'm happy.
Australia was, in a lot of ways, about opening up opportunities and showing me what was out there when I would finally move away from PEI. France has been about confirming certain priorities for me, and reminding me about things I will do when I get home.
