J'ai la flemme

J’ai la flemme : I’m lazy

It’s been a while. I’m back in Paris after a month in the U.S. After I arrived in France last weekend I took off for Saint-Malo, a rampart-enclosed city on the rugged coast of Bretagne. You might know it as the setting for All the Light We Cannot See. Walking through the streets in January feels like being in a ghost town, in the loveliest way. A wintery, maritime Elysium. All quiet but for the wind, waves and seagulls. We road-tripped through the countryside, making pit stops at the medieval island city of Mont Saint-Michel, sleepy stone fishing villages, and lonely abbeys among desolate marshes.

Now I’m back in Paris, under an icy gray sky that suits the city’s slate, stone and angst. I’m frozen too. Top of mind at any given moment is finding an ember of warmth to thaw myself out. Every morning, I’m hesitant to get out of my cozy bed. After finishing a meal in a jam-packed cafe, I need some extra time to gather the strength to walk out the doors. It’s hard to be productive this time of year. I’m static like the world around me. J’ai la flemme. “I have laziness,” to translate it literally.

I’m beginning to readjust, still in the whiplash of international travel. As I get settled back in to life in Paris I’m thinking about my time in the U.S., and particularly the reverse culture shocks I noticed when I was home. I thought I’d share some with you:

Waiters who act like your best friend

One of my first days back in LA I went to dinner with some friends. Every time the waiter stopped by our table (which was every few minutes, just to check on how we were doing) he’d say, “I appreciate ya.” During other meals out, waiters danced up to the table, cracked dad jokes, and made small talk.

The flattery and hovering was funny to me. In Paris, you have to flag the waiter down to get them to come to your table, and the interactions are pretty to-the-point.

Tipping

Tipping is really uncommon in France, unless you’re at a really nice restaurant, or you’re getting a haircut or some sort of salon service. I haven’t seen a cashier turn around an iPad screen with tipping options here in Paris. Back in the U.S., I had to keep reminding myself that the latte that read $7 on the menu was actually going to be a bit more.

Giant everything

On my journey to the U.S. from Paris back in December, I had a layover at JFK and decided to grab a smoothie from Jamba Juice. I ordered a small. What they handed me was bigger than any size drink of any kind I’ve seen here in Paris. It was the same with the “small” coffees. Now in Paris, when I glance at the espresso shot in my hand, it looks like it was zapped with a shrink ray.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about how huge kitchens were. In my old apartment in LA, I had thought my kitchen was on the small side but manageable. Compared to every kitchen I’ve had in Paris it looks like it’s built for giants. I was astonished by all these American kitchens that can fit an oven and more than two burners.

The washing machines too, are practically industrial size compared to those in Paris. What’s more is the washers and dryers are two separate machines, and somehow there’s space.

Calories on menus

I haven’t seen this anywhere in Paris, even at more casual spots. It made the dining experience feel strangely clinical seeing calories on the menus at some restaurants back in the U.S.

Snacks galore

France just doesn’t have great snacks. Not that I’ve found yet. Unequalled pastries, bread and cheese, yes. But processed, bagged, addicting, can-hardly-be-considered-food-anymore stuff is harder to come by. Maybe I’m missing something, but in the snack aisles in all the grocery stores I’ve been to here there are some really sad, really small bags of basic potato chips and a small variety of other bland-looking snacks. Wandering through Trader Joe’s back in the U.S. was almost overwhelming — in a kid-in-a-candy-shop sort of way. But it also felt excessive. Endless options, overflowing shelves, any type of dip you could possibly imagine.

Where are all the books?

I noticed that I didn’t see many people walking around with a book in hand, or sitting in public places reading in LA. I hadn’t thought about this when I was living there. But since being in Paris I’ve grown accustomed to seeing people bring their books along as faithfully as they would their iPhones.

Religion with a megaphone

I didn’t realize how loud religion was in America until I came back after five months in France. In Paris, there are churches and mosques and religious holidays. But it’s quiet. The contract for my French class made sure to mention the prohibition of showing religious symbols or proselytizing on school grounds.

In LA, you can’t miss the towering, vaguely art deco Mormon temple when driving through Beverly Hills, or the ostentatious, steel blue Scientology headquarters looming over Hollywood. Take a road trip out of major metropolitan areas and at some point you’ll pass billboards demanding your repentance and warning of the end. I don’t even need to mention the bedfellows called church and state.

Dystopian urban sprawl

Parisian architecture is coordinated — the same limestone, same gray zinc or slate roofs, same Haussmannian-style buildings. There was a lot of thought put into it, and it shows. Centuries-old cathedrals rise above cobblestone streets. Los Angeles is dotted with kitschy haunts, massive parking lots, dingbat apartments, and gaudy mansions (although these are often concealed by gates and trees). Some of it is cheaply and quickly built, some of it is decadent, and some of it is outlandishly creative with debatable tastefulness. When I was walking in Hollywood, in the shadow of garish icons like that blue Church of Scientology I mentioned, I kept thinking of those lines from Phoebe Bridger’s “Punisher”: “But from the window it’s not a bad show / If your favorite thing’s dianetics and stucco.”

I find it all endearing, although the reason for this eludes me.

Sweatpants

I started getting used to wearing sweatpants out of the house again, and it was heaven. I could roll out of bed and stroll to a coffee shop with frizzy hair, mismatched sweats, and no bra. No one cared. Even better was I wasn’t the only one looking like this in public.

In Paris, I never see people wearing sweatpants unless it’s some sort of high-fashion streetwear.

The widest roads you’ve ever seen

There’s just so much space on American roads. Multiple pickup trucks could drive side-by-side whereas you’d struggle to get one through many two-way streets in France. While driving in Bretagne, I’d often have to pull over on two-way streets to let the oncoming traffic pass. And I found myself clutching the steering wheel anticipating our cars scratching each other.

The sidewalks too. In LA you can walk next to a friend and still have space for other pedestrians to pass you. Crazy.

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I didn’t find these differences jarring at all, just amusing. I’m sitting in a new apartment in Le Marais as I write this. Life is slow for a moment. It will pick up soon with some bureaucratic hurdles I’ve got to deal with this week, but that’s for another time. For now, j’ai la flemme.