Paris: French Lessons, Fashion & Food

It all began on a Euroline bus, Europe’s version of the Greyhound sans the Amish and the storytellers. I took the overnight bus with my new friend Christine, a German blonde bombshell from Germany that also attended the Black Europe Program. She was one of the coolest people I had ever met. She got into racial justice after taking classes on something called “Whiteness Studies.”

In any case, half-way there Christine began to inform me about the French’s negative disposition towards foreigners who don’t speak their language. Thus, before we decided to pass out I received my first and only French lesson. After a brief survey of my likes and dislikes we commenced the lesson and this is what I learned:

Bonjour.
Hello.

Au Revoir.
Good-bye.

Bon Soir.
Good Evening.

Bon Nuit.
Good Night.

Oui.
Yes.

Je voudrais un cafe avec un croissant s'il vous plaît.
May I please have a croissant and coffee?

Je voudrais manger des pommes de terre et poulet.
I would like to eat potatoes and chicken.

L'addition, s'il vous plaît.
Check, please.

Les toilettes, s'il vous plaît?
Toilet please?

Je veux partir.
Let us leave.

Ne me touche pas.
Don't touch me.

Ça me plaît pas du tout, sa.
I really don't like that.

J'aime (bien) sa!
I love it!

Jolie (robe) !
Very nice (dress)!

After a few recitations, I was able to dine, shop and exchange pleasantries—well, except with the street harassers. Unfortunately, I had to use my “Don’t touch me/I really don’t like that/Let us leave” combo more times than I care to remember. A pick up line does not suffice for attention getters in the city famous for The Louvre. A “Bonjour” was likely to be accompanied by a grab of the right arm from the opposite sex. Luckily, I am as gregarious as I am diplomatic so I returned to my Amsterdam quarters mostly unscathed.

Dining, however, was quite the challenge. It wasn’t enough that during lunch I agreed to ape the gestures of my voyeuristic colleagues that insisted we eat and watch silently the passerby’s. I tried crepes, espressos sans coffee and bread without butter.

I didn’t get officially burned until dinner the second night I was there. Many who know me know that I am a certified challenge as a restaurant patron. More often than not, what I want is not on the menu. I am beyond picky; I am particularly, particular about my food. In the states, occasionally, I try new things. Now that I am abroad, trying something new is an everyday occurrence. And if the Russian Roulette, euro style, isn’t bad enough, in non-English speaking countries I am required to either starve or completely relinquish control so my fluent, native language-speaking friends can translate all my questions. Embracing patience when something gets lost in the sauce is a tedious task.

And so, I let go and let God when my fried rice, grilled chicken and side salad turned out to be crusty white rice, days old lettuce and slabs of partially cooked, unseasoned, sliced chicken (off of the breast.) To fully grasp my discontent, one must know that my Ghanaian grandmother raised me. She takes more of the attributes of a “Big Mama” than a “Nana.” Thus, she specially prepared most of the food I ate until I was 18. To the non-Ghanaian tongue it’s usually the type of food that requires an abundance of water and milk on-call. Carbs and tomato-based sauces are essential to Ghanaian cuisine. Needless to say, considering that Italy is not on my itinerary, dining is an everyday struggle.

Luckily, I was struck by some good luck that assuaged my meal anxiety. On my way to Paris, my bank records reflected that I had just received my economic stimulus check. Given my distrust for another one of Bush’s gimmicks, I vowed that when I received my money, I would spend it in Europe. And so, my Black European colleagues and I hit the streets for one prize that I could call my own: A Parisian dress.

No complaints here about Paris and fashion. But for me it’s all in the fit, the material and the wear. I ended up settling on a satin orange number that hung in a window at a little boutique called Les Petites. Jolie indeed!

Of course, as I am a sightseer, a lot of my time was spent waiting in line at the Eiffel Tower, which is one of the most wondrous sights I have ever seen. Also, Sunday afternoon I went on a Parisian stroll through one of the national parks. It was a little odd to see what appeared to be an entire community doing Pilates, aerobics, and jogging in the wild. But I guess that’s how they reconcile those crepes and croissants!



Wish me luck! Tomorrow I have my first natural hair appointment in Amsterdam. I have been told it will involve a needle and thread…details to follow.

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