| le pain |
[Mar. 14th, 2003|04:30 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| | flat like uncapped soda | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | come away with me//norah jones | ] |
paris:
we stop at the bakery that i assume is a mom & pop operation but that i learn later (from getting lost and wandering around the city) is a crummy chain store. i only took two months of introductory french in middle school, from a 28 year old ex-valley girl who insisted we call her madmoiselle farley while she said "tres bien!" with the same accent one would adopt was one saying "like, gag me with a spoon!". i want french bread, but get in an extreme state of panic when i approach the counter. do the french just call it "bread"? or is it still "french bread"? i think the word for bread is "pain". that can't be right, can it? i wish i paid more attention in that class.
i listen to the french woman ordering in front of me to try to get the right pronunciation...or at least a comparable facsimile. i am acutely aware that sometimes my "merci" still sounds harshly american, like "merrr-see", or "mercy". i used to make fun of the kids in my high school spanish class who pronounced "gracias" like "grassy-ass", and now i'm wearing their linguistically challenged shoes. the woman behind the counter is looking at me expectantly, and i mumble "le pain" and point to the long cylinders of bread leaning against the wall in piles. it must be obvious at this point that i am an american, but she still says the price to me in french, so i hand her a ten euro note to be sure that it will be more than enough.
i cradle the loaf of bread in my arms the way a only a seasoned mother can cradle a baby- just carelessly enough. i wait for kay, randy, and laura to pay for their various pastries so we can all walk to the notre dame together. i bring the bread up to my nose to smell it, and when i bring it away, i notice in a shop window that my face is covered in white powder, like i've been making out with a bag of cocaine. i look like people do on tv when they've supposedly been baking, flour smudged decoratively on my face, in my hair, on my jacket. kay and the gang are all ahead of me now, shells of the roasted chesnuts that street vendors have dropped crunching under their feet. i run to catch up with them, careful not to slip on the chesnuts, and smack a flour covered hand on kay's back. the white shape of my hand clings to her black wool jacket. and all i can think for the rest of the day is that she's a walking crime scene, already dusted for prints. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
redhoney's journal