Recipe no°11: Plumber's Punch

(a.k.a Planter's Punch)
4 oz. fresh orange juice

1 oz. fresh lime juice

3 oz. dark rum

2 oz. simple syrup

(www.drink-recipes.co.uk)

Triple the recipe, stir with a monkey wrench and pour into a glass bottle, so you can share with friends. Turn up the thermostat and drink over ice, imagining you are on a tropical island (I'm assuming you're not).

Last night I had a date, sort of. It was a date in that I texted a boy to come meet me for a drink, and not in the sense that I brought C. along as a wing-woman. As stated previously, G.'s cute-osity potential had previously been difficult to ascertain, obstructed by his insistance on sporting a winter hat designed to protect the ears, and thus covering a maximum of head area and letting nary a hair peek through. My fear that he was perhaps prematurely balding (sadly, I'm realizing that as I age, the baldness of these men may not be so premature) was only multiplied when he entered La Boîte à sardines (one of my favorite bars in Grenoble, despite the bipolar server who suddenly was all smiles and sunshine last night, after formerly behaving as though the fact that we were ordering drinks from him was just so unbelievably annoying, couldn't we get them ourselves?), wearing a soft grey cap, jauntily positioned to the side.

I later assuaged my baldness anxieties by asking him to remove the cap, revealing a rather full head of fro-ish hair. Ahhh. The rest of the night was rather the same, in terms of him revealing himself little by little to be: very considerate, well-traveled, not half bad at English, affectionate, and flattering.

But there must be some downsides. He also made it known over the course of the evening that he was: a plumber--while I find this a respectable profession, and potentially useful to me (see sink-clogging entry), it can be a slight letdown when I long to discuss literature or philosophy, but hey, maybe he's a literate, philosophizing plumber! I mean just look at all Joe has accomplished! He is also a shoplifter, and by consequence obviously pretty broke. But here's the icing on the cake, that makes me think I should really think of running straight back for the hills of dateless, single life: he lives with his ex-girlfriend (and her sister). It gets worse. Now, when he told me this, he was obviously chagrined (yes, I'm having fun with the dictionary/thesaurus today) and embarrassed, and assured me that he worked like crazy, trying to get his own place, and was there as little as possible.
Yet--when I casually posed the obvious query: "So, you've been separated for how long?" his response was less than satisfactory. Because two months ago, that was when we met. That was when we spent the night dancing away, and then he left C. his number for me to call. Which I waited to do until I saw him again, after the concert (and oh-so-smooth, all I could think of to say was "Oh, it's YOU." He made fun of me for that). So unless he started liking me the day he broke up with her (yet continued to live under the same roof)...
Plus, if you're living with someone, that indicated you have probably been together a good long time. And not necessarily over each other in two months (especially if you're still living together, dammit!), let alone the 5 minutes he apparently waited to start giving out his phone number to drunken dance partners. O mon dieu.

What do all y'all think out there? Am I totally nuts for even agreeing to see him again? Keep in mind, the dating drought around here is causing some serious dangerous conditions...flames could arise at any moment. This isn't the giant cumulo-nimbus raincloud I've been waiting for, but little sprinkle could be nice...

Recipe nº10: Stranger's Danger

1 1/2 oz. sambuca
1 1/2 oz. cherry brandy
2 oz. orange juice
2 oz. pineapple juice
splash of grenadine

(www.cocktailmaking.co.uk)

Pour over ice into a pint glass, garnish with an orange slice. Drink slowly while peering over the rim of your glass at other party-goers. Use as a conversation starter, or simply wait for the effects of the alcohol to loosen your tongue...

Alright, fans of French boy sagas! The newest episode is in, but it promises to be slightly less interesting than previous ones. Désolée. In fact, all I can really say is that I went to their concert, it was good but not stunning (I'm holding out for the 'Modern Folks' concert, which will include both Manu AND Dmitri); I was one of two people dancing (yeah, Caitlin!) in a sea of head-bobbers; Dmitri is actually really good and I would tend to disagree with Romain in calling him a "guy who hangs out with musicians". All in all, it was good clean fun; the party afterwards had to be cut short on my part because I had to go hiking with my students the next day. So responsible. Apparently I left right before a 4-hour dance party began; thanks Manu, for telling me you were putting on jazz so everyone would go to sleep!

For those of you who tuned in exclusively for the drama: Caitlin's boy didn't show up and has been M.I.A. for far too long, my recent rejectee was rather cold to me (but apparently said nice things behind my back, who DOES that?), and I ran into a dance partner from a former party, who was a very respectful dancer and won major points for that, but unfortunately I had had just enough drinks at the time to not really be sure now if he's "cute or not". Verdict is still out as he wore a winter hat with earflaps the entire time on Saturday. But I think we're going to call him...although would you believe a mixed-race, rap-loving great dancer could be named 'Gérald'?? Me neither.

It's hard trying to party with French people--it takes forever to get good enough at the language that you can hold witty conversations (see previous blog-entry) and more importantly, to be able to decipher the general cacaphony surrounding you. And maybe this is just in M&D land (God, I complained they were conceited and now they have practically a whole blog dedicated to them; I need to come up with a better appellation for the part of my life that they occupy), but C. and I were the only girls in the beginning of the party, and the boys stood around talking to each other and ignoring us! Maybe I'm just an attention hog, but please; it's tough enough being a foreigner, don't segregate us based on gender as well!

Plus I'm in this weird kind of limbo in terms of becoming friends with the whole gang; I'm definitely friends with C., who lives with some of them and wins their good graces through her lovely vibrant personality and culinary skills, among other things. So by default they must accept me, but we haven't exchanged phone numbers and if I get invited to do things, it's through C. (which, if you're reading this C., is just peachy!). But all this boils down to (and I know it's my insecurities talking), do they like hanging out with me, vraiment? I'm sure they do to some extent, but when people know you're only here for a year and then leaving, possibly forever, it does tend to mark their impression of you. So here I float; definitely not a groupie, but just sort of an incrusteuse, a word which comes from one of my fave French verbs: s'incruster. A reflexive verb, it means what it looks like: to "encrust" yourself onto others, to join a party you weren't really invited to. You just know the right people who know the right people.

Merci, C.

Recipe no°9: Apple Pie Martini

1 1/2 oz. vodka

1/2 oz. cinnamon schnapps

2 oz. apple juice

1 oz. cranberry juice

Shake over ice, strain into a martini glass. Garnish with an apple slice.

For a little extra flair à La Ricaine, garnish with an tiny American flag or a lit sparkler*.

*Let sparkler burn out before attempting to drink. 

Hold your heads high, fellow expatriates, and feel free to shout English in the streets! You need no longer endure the mépris of those who surround you, the asinine, condescending smirks on their faces as they ask you, "Ah oui, tu es américaine ? Tu aimes ton président ?" (smirk, smirk). Watch as they now humbly bow to you, claiming their country is still not ready to elect a non-white (although maybe a woman, if Obama's team hadn't stolen her ideas). Bask in the warmth of their approval/jealousy. Ahhh...

If you still feel the French don't love you quite enough, you can always share with them this uber-inspirational video, which I discovered grace à one of my favorite Americans, miss Caitlin.

A while back I talked about the things I love about France, which make it hard for me to leave. I promised to do the same for the U.S. of A., and something tells me that day has come.

Reasons why I love my country:

1) Obama.

Ok, so I know it's a little bit fresh, but the U.S. does have a certain something, a way to prove that even if we're over-consuming, rich bastards, there's a reason why we're number one (as much as I cringe to type those words). There is something special about our country; we've shown we're not quite as predictable as the rest of the world might make us out to be. And although there are many aspects of the typical American life that I disapprove of or even disgust me, Obama is ready to address many of them and force us to address them as well. I could go on about this forever, so let's just leave it at this: I'm proud of us for the first time I can remember.

2) My family (and friends!). 

Yes, here's the corny part. But you try living so far away you can't go home for Christmas/Inauguration Day. But I suppose even if  was home, my little sister is off gallavanting over in Uganda...that is if they allow gallavanting over there. God I hope she's OK.

I list this because it is a deal-breaker. I miss everyone too much to set up permanent house over here.

3) Understanding everyone/being witty.

You take this for granted, don't you. And no, maybe I'm not the wittiest of them all but I certainly feel more free when speaking English to say every little annoying or possibly hilarious joke that might cross my mind. Is this necessarily a good thing? No, but it sucks thinking of something and then the moment has passed or you don't know how to say it with the same nuance. Let's just say I often feel the version française of my personality is less interesting.

4) Heat.

Here comes the spoiled American talking. Grenoble is probably warmer all-around than Boston, but indoors... France is cold ! I've noticed people do dress more warmly, so I've invested in a few turtlenecks (making their first come-back in my wardrobe since 6th grade), but still...it doesn't get much warmer than 15°C in my room on cold days, and I looked it up, that's only like 59°F! Luckily I can write my blog in the office because at home my fingers don't move so well (cue world's tiniest violin). But although I miss this, I think the U.S. should strive to copy France in this arena, as unpleasant as it may seem, you can get used to it.

5) Convenience.

Almost all businesses, including grocery stores are closed on Sundays here, and often on Mondays too. Maybe eating at 2am isn't the best idea, but it's nice to have the option, and not being able to grocery-shop on a weekend day is just plain silly.

6) Diners.

Need I say more.

OK, I know I'm forgetting some important things so please remind me what they are. But this list would not be complete without :

7) Macaroni 'n cheese.

What would a list about America be without some kind of powdered cheese? I think what I love the most is the horror this idea can inspire in any cheese-respecting French person. Sometimes you just need a little reminder that you come from a place where cheese can viably be spelled with a 'z'. 

God bless! 

Recipe nº8: Soirée avec des garçons

4-5 bottles of Leffe Blonde (25cl)

a drop of whiskey

Drink the 4-5 beers warm, directly out of the case that's sitting on the floor. Use a lighter to open the bottles. Finish the night with the whiskey.

So as promised, here's episode 2 of the Manu and Dmitri show: The Party.

After spending the day attempting to cross-country ski (harder than it looks, ok?) and pulling small children around a (flat) yard in sleds, I was exhausted and not in the mood to party. Note: naps after 8pm are not a good idea. I texted Caitlin something to that effect, and immediately was called back: "Are you kidding me? If you don't come over right now, we're coming to get you." Reluctantly I showered, dolled myself up, and headed over.

The smoke hovered around Caitlin, Martin, Mathias, Romain and Manu in the hazy living room. Everyone laughed at me a bit for being tired, and then went on with the party, which I would characterize as divided into three phases: YouTubing (ok, this is France so DailyMotioning), sing-along, and finally dance party. The highlight of the first phase was the viewing of this video, which at the time seemed like the best thing I had ever seen. Was this just the Leffe Blonde talking? I'll let you judge for yourselves...

Part two was a good old-fashioned jam session/sing-along, where Manu finally got to witness my skeelz which were much improved as I had trimmed my nails. I don't think I blew his mind, unfortunately. But I did show him how to play the chorus of "Hey You've Got to Hide Your Love Away". There was much fun had by all.

Part three was candle-lit and techno-y, and after jumping around like a crazy person for a few songs, my second wind had died down and I was ready for bed. Of course I couldn't leave without having a classic awkward moment with "the boy". This is a scene I know by heart, as I'm sure many of you do as well, and have been experiencing since 7th grade.

Boy: C'mere, I want to tell you something.

You (reluctantly, not wanting to lean in that close OR hear what he has to say, as you know the gist all too well): Ok...

Boy (petulantly): You don't want to hear what I have to say?

You (screaming on the inside, "How old are you??!!"): Mmmm, I'm not sure...

Boy: Fine then. (pouts)

Five minutes later, he tells you anyway.

After shooting down yet another would-be French lover, in my heart-of-ice no remorse manner, I tottered home (more tired than drunk) to my bed.

Although I may talk of other things before then, do not fret Manu/Dmitri fans! Episode 3 will be aired after the January 24th "Code" concert, which I am being forced to pay 12 euros for since Romain loves Caitlin and has given her his free ticket, and I don't want to ask the boy for his or I will surely have to pay for it with my body. Beware, Caitlin!

That's all for now; I'm sure it was exactly how you imagined it, only better.

Have I converted a few Claude François fans, au moins?

Recipe nº7 : Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder

1 glass of champagne
1 oz. absinthe

Pour the absinthe into a champagne glass and add the bubbly, in the manner of a kir. Drink and try not to vomit.

courtesy of Rachel

OMG numerous fans...please do not incur your wrath upon me! I know my absence has been inexcusable but I am still getting ahold of this whole "blogging" thing (only about 5 years behind schedule, I know). As a lovely lady named Talia once said, and I paraphrase, sometimes people get caught up DOING stuff and don't have time to write about it. I don't want to be one of these people, really. So I'm back.

I'm also giving up on trying to have really cool themes for every one of my posts, because if I keep trying to do that, I will probably have one more. So I'm joining the bandwagon of everyday rants because it sounds like so much fun, it's cathartic, and as I'm beginning to learn from reading others' blogs, utterly fascinating! Like literary reality TV. Well, depending on who's blog you read anyway.

Oops, bathroom break. See? It's REAL LIFE!

So the French life continues...for some reason I only seem to be able to meet and become friends with dirty-ish, pot-smoking, can't quite get it together at almost age 30 guys. That sounds mean. But I think it's because all the clean, clear-eyed, together guys are married with like, 12 babies already. And come to think of it, I did make friends with a super Catholic guy (who was still dirty, ugh. I mean, I didn't LIKE him like him but I still showered to go to the movies!) who turned out to be no fun so maybe I'm better off with the potheads.
De toute façon, it's beginning again, as I get to know my fellow expatriate friend Caitlin's roommates and their friends, who not only are dirty smokers but also form not one but two musical bands, called "Code" and "Modern Folks" (I tell you this now so you can say you read a blog about them way back when). These bands, as I understand it because I have never heard them play other than a few muted emanations from Caitlin's basement, perform songs whose lyrics are entirely in English. This has got me thinking; at first I was skeptical, thinking the would-be poets were apt to make glaring grammatical errors that would ruin the effect. However, the "Modern Folks" leader (who, incidentally, rattled off no fewer than five adjectives to describe their sound, two of them being psychedelic and timeless) Manu has explained to me that the French language does not lend itself to rock lyrics in the same way the English does.
NB: If you are a desperate graduate student in music who happens to speak French, I happen to think this would be a great dissertation topic.
Anyway, Manu and his petit frère Dmitri are quite the characters. I'm tempted to post a photo of them, but I think this would violate several ethical codes. However the two of them recently participated in a band-related photo shoot, hanging a black sheet in the living room, donning rockstar sunglasses and strutting around beneath a multi-colored strobe light. The brothers both share a love for seventies style, hang-in-your-eyes hair that is obviously essential to their personality and sex-appeal.
After enduring (admittedly amusedly) the antics of these two for several months, I finally had to opportunity to spend some time with the other band members. An entire night, in fact, as Caitlin and I were invited to a party in the nearby town of Voiron and were at Manu and Dmitri's mercy for getting home. So we walked into a party of 10 dirty French bandboys plus...us. With no hope of leaving until 2 p.m. the next day, when we would have to be back in Grenoble because (how adorable!) they all had band practice.

My favorite moment of the party: I asked Romain, who plays guitar for both Code and Modern Folks, why he shaved his head. He replied (please allow me to translate and paraphrase), "I hate those guys in bands with their stupid mèche that hangs in front of their eyes, I would never want to be like that." Wow, what a relief, I thought these guys shared M & D's mèche-adorned belief that they were God's gift! I immediately stuttered something to the effect of, "but what about...them?" and he just laughed and said they were the worst. "Especially Dmitri, he plays the drums, and everyone knows that's just a guy who hangs out with musicians." It was beautiful. He even insisted that Caitlin and I go to one of their concerts, something the brothers have never done; they'd rather have us believe that they're going to drown in a sea of panties tossed to them onstage. I will update you on the reality of this supposition.

Another beautiful moment in the night was when they were passing the guitar around, as always happens in the wee hours of the morning at a party where there's a guitar and anyone at all knows how to play...but an already too-long story short, I played a few riffs of "Blackbird" and had them all freaking out like they didn't know Americans could manipulate strings. Unfortunately I wasn't playing my best with long nails and no calluses but to them I was frickin' Eric Clapton. One guy even made several attempts to make out with me throughout the rest of the evening, assuring me that he had noticed me before, it was just my unbelievable guitar prowess that had him drooling. I should learn a few more chords, maybe I can score a date with Chris Martin! Jeez.
Too bad Manu and his mèche weren't there to witness my skeelz.

More to come from the Manu & Dmitri show...my admirer has invited me over (to Caitlin's house!) for apéro on Saturday, there's sure to be more excitement. Better practice that guitar, or on second thought, maybe not.