When Flirting is a Fact of Life

Much has been said about the Parisian male's romantic tendencies.
The thing that tends to shock Americans the most is the unimportance of age - the fact that elderly gentlemen find it absolutely normal and appropriate to come on to a girl half (or even one third) their age. While such propositions can be alarming, repulsive, or disturbing, they are hardly ever made with serious intent.

"Flirting is a fact of life in French culture," writes Naughty Paris author Heather Stimmler-Hall, "in most situations [it] is merely a pleasant form of communication."

As much as I complain about the attention that I receive in Paris, there are rare occasions where the innuendo-filled banter is funny, or just nice. Today was a good example.

Overseeing the production of my lunch at the street-side counter of l'As du Falafel in the Marais, I was asked by the chef (a man in his late thirties) if I wanted the spicy sauce. "Je veux tous les sauces" I replied, hoping for an extra generous application of Tahini. "Et moi aussi?" he retorted hopefully, going on to describe how he was good for the housework, for making dinner... clearly as good an investment as the five euro falafel I was about to devour. I declined with a sardonic smile, took my plastic fork, and proceeded on my way.


After lunch, I made my way over to Angelina, the Belle Epoque tea salon across from the Tuileries, for chocolat and a pistachio Financier. The host, a formally clad man in his late forties, greeted me in the foyer.
"Vous êtes seule, mademoiselle?"
"Oui."
"Ahhh... moi aussi," he replied with a forlorn sigh as he showed me to my seat.

Violet Ice Cream, Canned Tuna, and Quantum Mechanics

Throw the word Perfume in there and you've got my experience this weekend in Grasse, en bref.

Let's start with the violet ice cream:


My newest obsession. I don't understand why Americans haven't had the ingenuity of making flowers into flavors - many of the best things I've tasted in France have been of this category: coquelicot bonbons, orange-blossom sparkling water, candied rose petals... and of course violet ice cream. I discovered this latter wonder at a generic ice cream stand near the International Museum of Perfume in Grasse, and went back twice before discovering an even more delicious rendition at a glacier near the Place aux Aires. It is a sophisticated flavor which pairs beautifully with vanilla, and is a specialty of southern France (both the southwest - Toulouse, and the southeast - Grasse are known for their violets. The ice cream that I tasted was probably made from the grassette, a variety of violet native to the region of Grasse).


On to the canned tuna and Quantum Mechanics.
Grasse is known for its smells - it has a valid claim to the title "Perfume Capital of the World". My presence there was justified by an Aromatherapy conference (phytotherapie and aromatherapie are closely linked in France). For two days, I attended talks with titles such as "Phyto-aromatherapy in gynecology practice", "Aromatherapy and the brain," and the ambitious "Stochastic resonance: one step towards making sense of life." The latter was one of a series of lectures attempting to validate the healing powers of plants through an understanding of physical reality based upon quantum rather than classical mechanics. It was heady.

This is how science is on the other side of the Atlantic (or at least in the confines of over-intellectualizing France). The experience was made bearable by the fact that I could see the Mediterranean Sea from the balcony of the convention center during coffee breaks.


When not consuming violet ice cream or having my mind blown by the latest research on noise and neural stochastic resonance, I visited the parfumeries of Grasse - including a guided tour of the Fragonard factory - and admired thousands of perfume bottles as well as a mummified hand and foot in the Musée Internationale de la Parfumerie. This, of course, was all during daytime hours. Grasse is a medieval town built on a steep hillside, and one gets around by way of narrow pedestrian passages. I seemed to have an uncanny knack for finding myself alone in one of these dark passages, confronted by a group of loitering, twenty-year-old-something Maghrebian men. It was terrifying. I spent most evenings in the kitchenette of my rental studio, dining on canned tuna.

Luckily, it was a cool little studio. One morning, I was visited by a snail.

Ciao, Roma...

I once joked to a friend that I had opted to learn French and study abroad in France rather than Italy because, were I to spend a considerable amount of time in Italy, I would probably fall in love and never return to the United States.

Of Rome, this is potentially quite true. Good thing I threw only one coin into the Trevi Fountain.


Captions and explanation: the glassy Tiber river reflecting the statues of Pont d'Angelo; the Capitoline Wolf suckling Romulus and Remus; the Forum; ancient statues from the House of the Vestal Virgins; the Trevi Fountain; a group of nuns in St. Peter's Bascilica; view of the Pantheon from the McDonald's across the piazza, with Cappucchino milkshake and spinach-parmesan croquettes.
"Legend has it that a traveler who throws a coin into the [Trevi] fountain is ensured a speedy return to Rome; one who tosses two will fall in love there." - Let's Go Western Europe