Italy: It comes down to style

This is three weeks overdue. I've been back in France for 20 full days now, and I've barely bothered to do much chronicling for myself. It's not that I'm overloaded with work. Or too busy. Or have better things to do. It's just that since being in Italy, I went from do-everything-at-a-breakneck-pace American style to a bit more of a Mediterranean tempo. Maybe it's the heat. Or maybe my head's still in the clouds a bit. Never mind that there were hardly any clouds.

Or maybe it's because I enjoyed Italy so much this time around, that the old lady and I have been chasing that high, a futile endeavor as any addict will tell you. It's never as good as that first hit... or the second, as the case may be.

Biking around Lucca: Far more rewarding than any
museum packed with tourists.

The first time we went to Italy, we didn't particularly love it. Some parts of it we just hated. The constant fleecing by vendors and restaurateurs. The hidden charges. The lines. The lines to get in line and be fleeced by hidden charges. Italy was like one big tourist trap. It was up and down for me last time around, but mostly a downer for Alannah as she stayed on for another week, playing tour guide for my mother and aunts who'd come from Japan.

The difference, this time, was major. No, it was not my mom and aunts – they're wonderful to have around. We'd want them to come visit every year if they could. Rather, it was the style of travel. Whereas in the presence of middle-aged Japanese ladies, one has to hit every attraction in the guidebook and eat what's supposedly "typical," this time we did it our way: No big museums, no cafes on main piazzas, and most certainly not any place with an English or Japanese menu. We just hung out, ate, cooked, and most important of all, spent time with our friends and family and locals instead of dashing from point to point.

Granted, we did get around quite a bit. We blazed ourselves a nice rail-trail from Pisa to Portofino to Cinque Terre to Florence to Lucca, back to Florence and Pisa again [click links for photo sets], but with no stress. No real schedule. No must-do's. Other than eat, analyze, and rate gelato at every place possible, of course.

The ginormous brioche gelato. A little bird told
me this Italian treat will be served in Paris soon.

Like last time, we stopped near Portofino on the Ligurian coast to see my cousin, the rockstar sushi chef. This time around, he's got a wife and new baby – it's amazing how much can happen in a year and a half – which made the family time that much more special. Since we'd already done the tourist thing of strolling the entire windy coastal route between Portofino and Rapallo last time, it gave us more time for family bonding over beer, wine, sushi, and more beer. I'm not sure anything can match the sushi-high we got there, so we haven't even bothered going to our favorite joint in Paris since we've been back. (Sorry Andy, we'll be back soon!)

We left Santa Margherita bummed that we only had one night to spend with our growing family, but we knew what was next: The awesome beauty of the Cinque Terre (see previous blog post).

Vernazza - one of the five towns that comprise the Cinque Terre

His royal gawkiness Rick Steves may have blown the place up, but even with gaggles of tourists hunched over their guidebooks, the rugged natural beauty and fresh ocean air trump anything the ugliest of mankind can throw at it. For centuries these five villages were the symbol of steadfast resistance to Genovese rule in Liguria. Now the vertical-gardening rabblerousers are holding their own against millions of tourists, and they're doing a damn fine job of it. The whole region was even declared a national park to keep it from being spoiled by t-shirt vendors and faux Prada bag hawkers.

Only half a day was spent there, hiking the stone steps and paved seaside trails and smelling the ocean mist and lemon trees on either side. But we took note of all the vacation rental signs – in the stunning Vernazza and Manarola in particular – vowing we'll have to spend one of our long, French-style vacations here in the future. At the very least to eat Ligurian-style seafood again...

Spaghetti all'inferno at La Scogliera, Manarola.
We've recreated this one perfectly at home,
except the octopus isn't nearly as fresh this far inland.
Chase, chase, chase the dragon...

Alas, we had places to go and people to see, so after a brief stop to change trains in sad little La Spezia – where at least there was a so-so gelato shop open – we got into Florence by evening to see my other cousin (from the US) and family.

We had a blast in Florence. (See previous post.) Reunited with one of my lifelong best friends, his lovely wife, and two adorable kids, it was at once a bit odd (I feel so old!) and at the same time refreshing (it's a whole new gig!) playing the family role as a traveler. That, and we had our own kitchen.

The best meals are the shared ones. Cin cin!

There was nothing more inspiring than to have the Mercato Centrale just steps away from the front door. It's not that we lack great markets in Paris, but to have one gigantic one that's open every day (except Sunday, of course) was fantastic. Each morning, I'd get up with the burning desire to go to the market, if only to get a couple of items. Of course, I was largely motivated by the fact that Nerbone starts serving lunch at 7:00 am.

Nerbone is a Florentine institution that's been feeding market people for years. That means having lunch in the morning. Their traditional best-sellers are bollito (boiled beef) and lampredotto (tripe, from the fourth stomach of a cow). And while neither may sound appetizing to the typical palate, believe me when I say I still wake up in the morning wishing I could run downstairs for a sandwich made with these.

This dragon, by the way, has been halfway chased down. While I haven't yet found a proper triperie in Paris to make my own lampredotto, I was able to recreate Nerbone's panino bollito, albeit using baguette for the bread. In fact, I've been able to pack it and assemble it for lunch at work in times of need.

In addition to laying waste to some ginormous bistecca alla fiorentina and mountains of gelato, we also drank like kings – and for cheap. During one of our hunts for local foods, we stumbled upon a mescita (stand-up wine bar) and bottle shop that I found highly reminiscent of my favorite Parisian joint. The guys at Fratelli Zanobini, while perhaps less bearded, are a lot like the guys at Le Baron Rouge: Friendly, happy to recommend plenty of wines (many of small, local production, and most at below 2 euro a glass) and willing to humor tourists.  Needless to say, we ended up making a pitstop in here every day.

To burn off all the calories, we did some biking in under the sweltering Tuscan sun in Lucca. A remarkable change of pace, the town was almost moribund, and it seemed almost everywhere we went short of the central luxury shopping district (ugh) we had to ourselves. Our group took over a backyard patio and scarfed down lardo pizzas and huge German beers (a happy alternative to the Heineken-owned Moretti pisswater that's all over the place), cooled off in a gelato shop (of course), and freewheeled all around the ancient city walls on our baby seat-equipped cruisers that cost hardly anything to rent.

Cousins and the kidlets and cameras.
I swear, I'll get back to shooting myself bungie-jumping
and partying with half naked drunk chicks again. Maybe.

After a couple more days of Florence, we went our separate ways, with family off to Rome and beyond, and us to Pisa before catching our flight home. It was lucky that we'd decided to spend our last night there... I had thought of maybe going back up to Liguria – it's not very far – for one more night (and more sushi), but we thought better of it and stuck around Pisa. It's best not to rely on Italian regional train schedules when there are flights involved, after all.

This was the best decision, because Pisa fucking rocks. Simply doing a day-trip to Pisa to see the leaning tower – as most people do – really doesn't do the city justice. Granted, we were gifted a killer room in a luxury bed-and-breakfast due what may have been a booking mix-up (I can hold my own in Italian, but not enough to know what a front-desker is furiously discussing with a hotel owner), but all we did there was sleep anyway.

And even then, if I'd had any energy left, I'd have opted to stay out all night... on a Sunday, at that!

Once you've seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Battisteria and the Piazza dei Miracoli (which are all in the same place, hence why it's such a simple day trip), Pisa begs not to be explored for its sights, but to be thoroughly enjoyed. It's a university town, so it leans toward being funky, alternative, and affordable. The Piazza della Vettovaglie, which serves as the central market during the day, becomes a hub of affordable but hoppin' bars and restaurants, bustling during aperitivi (early evening drinks and happy hour buffets) and beyond.

Aperitivi in Pisa. Excellent wine at reasonable prices,
all the happy hour food you can handle, sunshine in the evening.

We drank there. We nibbled there. We had late night drunken street food dinner there. And in the morning we had breakfast there.  And all that on top of a marathon of going out elsewhere... The finest Italian microbrew (as in, brewed on premises, hoppy, and not Moretti or Nastro Azzurri) at Orzo Bruno. The reputedly best cecina (chickpea galettes, not unlike socca from the south of France) in all of Italy at Il Montino. (Their pizza was only so-so.) And – naturally – the most amazing gelato at De' Coltelli, an ice creamery run by descendants of the man who first sold ice cream to the public in Paris.

Again, we avoided the tourist traps (save for the leaning tower and trying the Bottega del Gelato) so we could simply hang out instead, and we were rewarded mightily. We skipped going in the Duomo – one of a gazillion cathedrals in Europe, whoopie – and dispensed with getting pastries at the well-known but overrated Salza. Instead, we followed our nose – and admittedly some pointers from Lonely Planet – and wound up having a brilliant night.

By the time we had to catch our 8-minute train to the airport the following afternoon, we were sad to leave. Sad to leave our family and friends. Sad to leave Italy. And surprisingly enough, sad to leave Pisa. Most people only give it a few hours, and we found that even one overnighter isn't enough.

Drinking chilled beers with the arty kids... Cooling down with a cup of gelato while sitting on the banks of the Arno... Walking under the yellow-tinted streetlights over centuries-old cobblestone... Sipping wine in the piazza... Talking with local artisans about things as simple as coffee or cured meat... Watching the local pizzaiolo blow his top and start yelling at someone in the way you only see in movies... (That last one was awwwwesome!)  We were able to take in all these stereotypically Italian things in one place, without the hassle of trinket-vendors or cover charges or multilingual menus. And yet there was plenty more I still wanted to try out.

This time around, we were able to enjoy Italy on our own terms, in our own style: Eating and drinking our way through it.

Along the way, I think I picked up some insight and expertise.

Insight: The way and the reason I travel continues to evolve. Whereas I used to hunt for adventure and new experiences by going out of my comfort zone (bungie jumping, swimming in crocodile-infested or shark-infested waters, eating bugs), I now find that it's perfectly fun and rewarding to do more "family-oriented" things. Perhaps because for such a long time, that's what was outside of my comfort zone. Playing with infants and making sure the little ones like what I prepare for dinner is a bigger test to me than launching myself off a bridge. I can throw myself down the side of a mountain for no good reason, but can I rise to the challenge of keeping a child entertained or quiet on a two-hour train ride? I can party past dawn with a bevy of hot Scandinavian backpackers, but can I actually be happier going to bed after a quiet bottle of vino rosso with my wife?  Yes, on both counts.

Expertise: The search for authenticity is often bogus. You can look for what's "real" based on your experiences or a particular paradigm, but does it matter? It really boils down to what you like. This trip I hunted down and tried what's supposed to be the best of the best food and drink from the best purveyors. Pesto from Liguria. Limoncello from Cinque Terre. Lardo di Colonnata. Prosciutto di Parma. Salsiccia di cinghiale. Brunello di Montalcino. Gelato from every freakin' reputable gelateria in Tuscany. And I gained an appreciation for new flavors (lampredotto, for one). Through it all, I learned the paradigm for what is best: Whatever is the freshest, simplest, and most true to the base ingredients. Because that's what I like.

So in coming back to Paris, despite how hard we chase the high, we're never really going to catch it.

The things you enjoy when you travel are often satisfying not only because of what, but when and where. The panino lampredotto is good not only because Nerbone makes tripe, of all things, taste like heaven,  but also because you're having it at the unusual hour of 7:30 am with a €3 carafe of red wine on the side. The Chaianti classico riserva is enjoyable not only because it's well made, but because it's the man who made it pouring it for you.

That said, we have run into some success in the dragon hunt.

After our long project of trying every gelato shop in Paris (a lot of which are barely edible garbage), we found one that fit the above paradigm of freshness, simplicity, and respecting the ingredient. (I wrote about it, Mary - the Gelato Shop, for VINGT Paris magazine as soon as Alannah had sniffed it out.)  The snowball effect of others catching on to it has apparently been really good for their business, and although we have to wait a little bit longer to get a scoop, we still get the individual treatment and passionate talks about the ingredients that made us love the spot in the first place.

Our neighborhood Italian favorite Rossi and Co. – fully subscribed to the fresh/simple paradigm and on the newly-appreciated family-friendly tip – was recently discovered by the trendoids at Le Fooding. This means that while they'll probably be inundated with the foodie version of mindless fashionistas, they'll probably also keep their 5 little tables occupied and be raking in the dough to keep them in business. Their food is dead simple, but it's – bringing in time and place again – the hours you spend yakking with the proprietor and his wife and making faces at their baby that makes it that much more like what we loved about Italy.

In all, via the latest travels I've stopped looking for what's real, but instead for what's good and provides a good experience. What traveling and sampling and tasting and talking has done is help me establish my own baseline for good.

And that's starting to be what traveling and visiting are all about for me: Not where you go, but what you bring back.

(For the record, I brought back a huge supply of cuore di prosciutto and lardo di colonnata. Come on over.)

Mangia! Mangia! Mangia!

Backdated post due to wonky internet access in Italy...

I've been proud of my successful weight loss for a little while now, but a day in Milan has pretty much blown my waistline back to its former proportions. I don't think I've eaten this much on a trip since the infamous month of eating Japan, and that was a lot.

The thing is, that's who I am and it's what I do. Other people travel to see landmarks and museums and great works of art - which I certainly love. But my preference, first and foremost, is to soak up the culture. And the best way to do it - if you ask me - is via food and drink.

Sure, I've been called the F-word before (uh, that'd be "foodie"), but I'm not a high-falutin' Michelin guide-totin' snob. In fact, while hunting for the elusive internet café this morning, we started the day with a coffee at McDonald's. Yes, in the land of cafés at every corner, we went to McDonald's. Really, it was in hopes of finding some Wi-Fi. In Japan, it was the only reliable place to get online, so I was hoping that might be the case here. No luck. And it was too early for lunch, so there'd be no trying out the Italian version of the menu. And for the record, their espresso was not bad at all.

If you're not too disgusted and have continued reading, you can learn about our next bit of masochism. While doing a little shopping (I finally found the ideal Bialetti espresso maker!) and heading back to our hotel to unload, Alannah and I passed by Caballo Loco which is, you guessed it, a Mexican restaurant!

Now, getting decent Mexican food in Europe is like finding a needle in a haystack - a very dull, rusty needle in a flavorless haystack. But after seeing that their menu included tacos with "prosciutto e formaggio," we knew we had to throw down. We also knew we weren't going to get anything close to Mexican food as a couple of taqueria-veteran Californians would know it. So we were pleasantly surprised by the colorful but not over-the-top atmosphere, complete with cheesedick Latin pop music... not to mention the good tortilla chips and *gasp* hot salsa that didn't taste like ketchup! So the tacos did disappoint - I had the aforementioned prosciutto and cheese and Alannah the chili con carne, both just wrapped in a soft tortilla and nuked with a slice of Kraft cheese on top. On the other hand, the shaved fennel salad on the side (WTF!?) went surprisingly well with guacamole and sour cream.


Having dredged the low end, we headed back toward the Duomo in the center of town and located Peck, the gourmet food hall associated with the Michelin-starred Cracco-Peck restaurant. Having not yet found a way to digest food and shit out money, we decided to just drool over the amazing collection of cheeses, cured meats, luxury goods, and high-end prepared foods to go. I was hoping to find (and try!) a traditional Milanese fritto misto that includes little bits like lamb's lung and whatnot, but no such luck. I'd have to gross out Alannah some other time. We wanted to eat every bit of every thing on display, from the gigantic French-style escargot to the saffron-infused peccorino cheese to the hideously overpriced vegetable flans. I felt completely out of my spending league, but wanted to order one of each. Unfortunately, Peck doesn't offer free samples, so we went upstairs to the tea room to splurge on a "light snack."

The two of us had Peck's signature cocktail - a bitter and tart blend of Campari, aranciata, various liquors, and some awesome little tomatillo-like tropical fruit we keep encountering at European markets. Some day I'll figure it out what it is. The cocktail miraculously paired magnificently with our cheese plate, loaded up with seven types of cow, goat and sheep milk cheeses. The hands down favorite: The very peccorino alla zafferana we'd seen earlier. Ensnared in their trap, it wasn't a difficult decision to go buy a kilo of the ridiculously opulent cheese on the way out.

I further proved my inability to control my gustatory spending by ordering a 14€ kopi luwak coffee to cap off our afternoon tea. Considering they sell the stuff for 457€/kg, I figured having one demi-tasse of the stuff would make me not feel like a complete pauper walking out of the place. "I just bought your saffron cheese AND your coffee whose beans have been shit out by Indonesian pandas," I could say as they sneered at my well-worn jeans, snowboarding jacket, and hiking shoes. But they were actually very nice, and I wasn't followed by security even once.

I rang up my mom, and it turned out she and my aunts were just a few minutes away, so we met up in front of the Duomo before heading back to the hotel. We reviewed what we'd done thus far, and I told my mom about having just had some of the most amazing cheese ever... Now, she loves cheese - probably more than she does myself and my sister. So I knew I could make her happy by promising her a bit of the prize that she loves more than her own flesh and blood. "We bought a kilo of the stuff! We'll totally have some when we get back to Paris!" I think it may have been one of the few moments I've seen my mom pleased with my poorly-formed spending habits.

Back at the hotel, Alannah and I tried to figure where we'd have dinner. It was just the two of us tonight, so I was hoping we might be able to have a romantic evening, providing we find the right venue. I pulled out my trusty maitre d's knife (no European should leave home without it!) and pulled open a bottle of Barolo I'd picked up earlier at the market.

POP!

"Damn, that uncorked like champagne. I hope it's still good," I said as I poured a couple of glasses of the stuff. "Is it just me or is it fizzy?"

Alannah tasted it. "It says frizzante on the bottle. It's supposed to be sparkling."

Now, I've heard of sparkling reds before, but had never bothered to try, figuring it'd be like red wine flavored soda. And for once in my life, I can say I was right. Of course, swinging from low end to high, gravity had to pull us back, and we drank it up.

If red wine soda was an unexpectedly oddball way of starting off our romantic evening together, it was a harbinger of things to come. We hopped on the dodgy Metro line 2 to go to the opposite end of Milan, the canal district near Porto Genova. Because nothing says "romantic" like graffiti-infested subways and dried out canals. But we had a destination in mind: Le Vigne restaurant, a highly-recommended practitioner of Slow Food with an old school Italian atmosphere. What's not to like?

The answer to that question: My navigational skills. Despite having studied the map and pinpointing the location and committing it to memory before leaving, we got to the canals and found nothing. I went to the very roundabout whose shape and orientation I had memorized to the point that I could recognize it through the driving rain - and still, nothing. As the rain grew heavier, we searched the area, and searched, and searched. The more futile our search seemed to become, the more rain-soaked our shoes most certainly became. My once waterproof snowboarding jacket was nearly saturated (and with it the passport in my chest pocket, which now resembles an overcooked blue sheet of lasagne). Things grew even worse when we threw in the towel, headed back to the Metro station and then realized - wait - this isn't the way to the Metro! I started to get the feeling of dread that when traveling can mean a ruined trip. I sensed Alannah becoming frustrated. I knew I'd just fucked up our night, bigtime.

And as I decided to admit that not only would we never find the restaurant, but that we might have to throw the Metro into that same category of despair, we walked right by it. Le Vigne. Nowhere near the point I'd memorized on the map. The warm room and warm hostess welcomed our sorry, rain-drenched asses, and we decided to abandon our earlier plan to just order light starters and a glass of wine - to save money and our waistlines.

In the classic but none too chi-chi atmosphere (hell, there was a big screen in the back room with Sky Tele-Giornale on showing the latest Obama/McCain numbers) we laid waste to a platter of fiore di zucca stuffed with some of the most fantastic riccota cheese to grace the face of the earth. We used our bread - manners be damned - to sop up the freshest pesto this side of Genova. We dove into zucchini wrapped with angler fish wrapped with pancetta sitting in a grape reduction. Some fantastic Milanese rice cake. And, deciding to throw reason out the window, a giant ribeye steak - delightfully bloody and not-so-delightfully priced al'otte (by the 100g). Oh well, at least the local wine we were guzzling was a ridiculous bargain.

Earlier in the day, Alannah and I were a little bummed that we were spending Halloween not doing anything Halloweeny. Sure, there were some youth running around in ghostface "Scream" masks and tons of places had pumpkin decor in their windows, but we lamented not going to any costume parties.

As we ambled toward the Metro (only 50m away, it turned out) after our post-dinner espressos, we forgot about Halloween. Hell, we were in Italy and just ate an insanely amazing dinner. And - as it turns out - a romantic one, at that.

Anyway, it's about midnight and we have to catch a morning train to Liguria. Time for bed!

No, really, to sleep. I've eaten too much today to think about anything else.

Buckets and Buckets

My tummy has a problem.

Last night, before it got too dark and cold (and before Sunday's 2nd round NCAA games started), I went for a walk. This seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to do on Easter Sunday. The streets would be empty, the atmosphere serene, and I would own my little corner of Paris, with all the usual denizens off in church or with their families or otherwise not in my way.

Apparently, everyone else had the same idea. It was not unpleasant, though, with families and couples and other solos out for a petite promenade. Without any work to go to, without any bakery to buy bread from, without any school to attend, everyone was going along at that leisurely pace to nowhere in particular.

I made my way up the Boulevard de Voltaire. Along the way I passed many of the clothing wholesalers who make clothes in gros and demi-gros sizes ("fat" and "half fat"), which always give me a chuckle. The French do not mince words.

I passed by a store window filled from top to bottom with gold-wrapped chocolate bunnies. Having lamented the fact that you only see chocolate bells here - and not bunnies - I was elated and wanted some, if only for sentimental reasons. But, of course, the store was closed.

There were some businesses open, though. Approaching the din of tour bus engines and cameras snapping and English being spoken, I knew I was coming up on the Place de la République. For some reason, all the Places in Paris - giant six-way intersections with a towering monument in the center - are littered with shrines to the American lifestyle. Not that I'm complaining - the fact that all of these places are open on Sundays have been a lifesaver. But as a non-tourist, it's a disappointment to find that almost every Place has been homogenized by the presence of a Buffalo Grill, Indiana Cafe, Pizza Pino, and McDonald's. Hell, even the Place de Léon Blum by my place has a Mickey D's (or as they'd say here "MacDo") casting a shadow upon it.

So in the French tradition of surrender, I waved my white flag and walked into... KFC.

Ok, so this move was premeditated. First off, I have this morbid curiosity of trying fast food places in other countries. (You can see a video of my foray into a Japanese KFC, if you like.) Secondly, in my utter loneliness and desperation to capture a little piece of home, I figured I'd use this weekend to take me back all the way to my college days. Where I could watch basketball all day and eat either an entire pizza or an entire carton of Shakey's fried chicken & "Mojo" potatoes, and still be ready for a liquid dinner later that night.

The shock of the French KFC to the American diner isn't what's on the menu, but rather what's not. There are no mashed potatoes. No gravy. No potato wedges. And... wait for it... NO BISCUITS! The only sides offered are fries, the corn cobette, and a caprese style salad of tomato, mozzerella, and basil. They also seem to be having some sort of promotion right now where they're offering baked beans. Not barbecue baked beans, mind you, but Heinz-style English baked beans.

All that aside, I was here for the chicken. Like I said, not for the quality, but to sentimentally recreate my college glory days. And so I ordered the 10-piece bucket combo (which includes four orders of fries and a 1.5l soda) called "Tasty Friends." Partially because I wanted a big bucket o' chicken. Partially because I found the name so morbidly cruel and funny. I just imagined a bunch of our avian friends - all friendly and jovial - being sent to their slaughter to end up in my bucket. Not unlike the classic SNL Cluckin' Chicken commercial. (By ridiculously tight-fisted copyright laws, that video link only works on US IP addresses. Spoof if you must...)

Back to where we were... Ah, yes. I proudly walked down the boulveard with my big bag of KFC, with the proud poise of De Gaulle coming back to Paris. I marched up my building's stairway with purpose, turned on the ol' March Madness on Demand, and prepared for my bacchanal of basketball and fried chicken and enough soda to keep me wired through the night.

And then something went wrong.

No, not Davidson beating Georgetown. As many brackets as that busted, that's one of those things that's terribly right about the tournament.

No, no, I'm referring to my beloved bucket of chicken. As I lifted a third piece of crunchy, greasy, life-curtailing goodness to my mouth, I took pause, thought for a moment, and put it down. Whereas in the glory days of my youth in the 90's, I could've easily put away an entire bucket of chicken without even looking to see exactly what I was even eating, I couldn't even get past the second one. My gustatory life had suddenly become one with the stories of Georgetown and Duke - former powerhouses that are now just another story of two-and-out.

In the 90's, that bucket would've been cleaned out by the time Western Kentucky and San Diego played their improbable game, and everyone who'd penciled the Hoyas or the Blue Devils or even the UConn Huskies in their bracket would still have a good shot at the office pool's $60 jackpot.

My unfinished bucket, however, isn't a sign of the decline of the Big East or ACC. It's a sign that my body is becoming more French. After just four weeks here, I'm no longer able to eat like an American. My portions have become more controlled. I'm much more finicky about the quality of what Im' eating. I already saw this happening from one week in, but my body's rejection of the Colonel's secret blend of 11 herbs and spices was the proof.

I spent much of last night reading. Because that's what I do when I'm doubled over on the toilet. I spent much of this morning... reading. In fact, my stomach didn't stop bothering me until - in the course of writing this entry - I had my morning coffee, yogurt, confiture and baguette. Then all of a sudden, everything seemed right.

My gut has surrendered. To the French. How's that for irony?

Metamorphosis

I've been here in France for a week and a half now. While I'll never be French, my uncanny ability to adapt, acculturate, and eventually assimilate is starting to rear its ugly head. At least, in my dining habits. Not only have I started to visibly lose weight (Soon I'll be thin enough to wear a horizontally striped shirt! Or not...) but my way of eating is becoming noticeably more French. So I present to you...

Top 10 Signs You're Becoming French - For Better or Worse
10. You're not in a rush anymore. Deadlines at work still exist, of course... in name.
9. You can't imagine not starting the day with coffee. Nor not having one as soon as you get to work. Nor not having one at lunch. Nor not having one after dinner - you know, just before bedtime.
8. Things like foie gras, sweetbreads, and tripe sausage sound delightful. The thought of a mocha at Starbucks makes you want to gag.
7. You now find it perfectly acceptable to have a cocktail or aperitif before dinner, a glass or two of wine with dinner, and maybe even a digestif afterward. This is on top of your after-work beer. Every night. (Oh, who am I fooling? I always thought that was fine.)
6. Before answering a question, you do that pffffffffbrrrr puff thing with your mouth. (For reference, watch L'Auberge Espagnole)
5. You can clean off a rack of ribs with a knife and fork, tines always down.
4. You don't think "Socialism" is a dirty word.
3. You only start thinking about what's for dinner after 8:00pm.
2. Once you do start thinking about it, you feel that an omelette is a perfectly acceptable dinner.
1. You get the things out to make that omelette, and you go into a complete state of panic over the fact that you have no bread.

Numbers 3, 2, and 1 happened to me tonight. I happily thought, "Yes! I will make a delicious, light, thin omelette, perfectly accompanied by a Côtes du Rhône, and... HOLY HELL! I DON'T HAVE BREAD!!!" The horrific thought of having dinner without bread invaded my mind. The even more horrific thought of not having any for breakfast nearly stunned me. I looked at the clock: 8:12. The boulangerie I've been going to is most certainly closed. My only choice is probably stuff that may as well be a week old from Monoprix. Good god, what do I do? What do I do?

I quickly put on my coat, hat and boots and ran down two flights of stairs as though the building was on fire. "Maybe that one other bakery," I thought, "the one that's closing shop whenever I walk by. Maybe if I tap on the window they'll sell me something." Within about 3 seconds, I was in front of the boulangerie, and what do you know? The sign says they don't close 'til 21h00! (That's 9:00pm for you people not down with the 24-hour clock.)

I threw down a coin and got the very last baguette, much to the chagrin of the people behind me. If they wanted it, they'd have to fight me for it. And I may not be tall, but I'm about twice as wide as most Parisians. BRING IT ON!

Luckily, no one wanted to wrassle for my baguette, even though revolutions have been started and kings beheaded over them. Or so the story goes. So vital and important is the cylindrical loaf of bread that the price of a standard-length/width piece is regulated by the government. It is, with its crunchy outside and soft chewy inside, the flour-based fabric of polite French society.

Considering my own reaction to being breadless, I can't imagine what sort of popular revolt would come about if there was a massive bread shortage. If Dr. Atkins (he of the low-carb diet "revolution") had his own island, France would be perpetually at war with it. But that old quack is dead anyway, and here, bread is victorious. Vive la baguette!