You can count on me to dis the multinationals that do their worst to shut down the mom&pop establishments. I bitch and moan when I get together with other expats who want to have coffee here. Coffee can be made best chez moi a la Bialetti.
Until the day I had to sign a contract of integration for my carte de sejour. I signed an agreement with the Republique that I would speak, eat, sleep, dress, breathe in French and that I would remain uncircumsized.
After months of turning/returning to the prefecture to be told I still don't have the right paperwork, here I am worse for wear, glued to my monster of dossiers signing my national identity away.
With my well earned carte tucked away, the rebel in me takes over full speed ahead to the nearest Starbucks @ Bastille.
I order, at the time, a seven dollar/4.5 euro coffee. I sit upstairs in a cushy chair content that I could quite possibly be neither from there or here.
"Excusez-Moi, Quelle heure est-il?" squeaked the tweeny ado from the herd next to me. "Il est quatre heure.." Giggles, whispers, and the inevitable mocking of my accent américain.
I giggled to myself and contemplated a cultural exchange of mockery vs. a good old American wedgie. read more