Ah… the Americans have returned. Yes, that is a strange thing to say in Paris — even putting aside the fact that I am American and therefore have no real reason to be commenting on the presence of Americans in Paris. And even more so because Americans are kind of eternally present in Paris. But I mean a special sort of American. I mean the AUP students.
My alma mater is not the sort of school I get weepy and nostalgic over. I enjoyed AUP, but, at least when I was attending, it wasn’t the sort of school that inspired a lot of spirit. I had that at my elementary school in New York, at my boarding school in Massachusetts (I dyed my hair blue once out of school spirit — remind me to burn those pictures).
AUP is a place that doesn’t exist in a time, because it still exists for me now, 7 years after I graduated. I walk past it nearly every day, on my way to meeting points for tours, on my way to or from the American Library, to and from the gym, to and from the fromager I like to go to who says tu to me and whose 3-year-old son, after a month of not seeing me, has started calling me ça again even though, for a while there, he was calling me Emily.
But even though AUP exists all the time, there is one point in every year, one moment that makes me a little bit nostalgic.
It started, this year, at that very same fromager, as I waited outside with a tour group. Three girls stood inside, choosing cheeses — I know they bought Comté, but I couldn’t say what else they opted for. A boy ran over from across the street, wielding a baguette. They must have been 18, 19 — I know because I felt that way at 18, 19, like I was a real adult, and I had people, I’m sure, looking at me the way that I was looking at them, full of nostalgia and quiet amusement. Probably people still look at me that way now, but that’s beside the point of this particular anecdote.
The boy started recounting his adventures trying to buy “some sort of meat.”
“That shop was more meat to cook, not meat to eat,” he informed them. “The other guys went to the supermarket. I decided not to go in because, well…” He wielded his baguette proudly. I loved him so much in that moment.
The girls nodded knowingly. I wanted to tell them about my favorite charcutier, just around the corner, where the products all come from the southwest and Murielle knows everything and gives you free samples, but I didn’t. Why didn’t I?
Did I want to give them their moment of discovery, their time of feeling like experts digging into the minutia of life in Paris? Have I just become too French to interact with people who have not distinctly invited my interaction? The fromager passed me a piece of Comté as I waited for them to finish choosing and paying. I chatted in French with the Canadian couple I was guiding. These students knew no better. For them, I was just another Parisian.
They left, presumably to consume the cheese and baguette and hopefully “some sort of meat,” and we finished our tour. I stopped thinking about them until hours later, after I had been to the gym and decided, against my better judgment, to go home in workout clothes, which is one of the main vestiges of my Americanness that I now allow myself.
I was waiting on the platform of the line 6 at Dupleix. They boarded my car with me. I recognized one boy’s all-American face, the brightly colored leggings of one of the girls. I wonder if they recognized me — probably not. I pretended to read my book as I listened to them, seeking and finding their own patterns in the better part of a week that they’ve called Paris home.
“Line 14 is my favorite,” one boy said. The others nodded encouragingly. “It’s just so fast!
“My metro stop is really crowded,” another explained. “But I live in a really residential neighborhood.”
Which stop? Which neighborhood? I wanted to ask, but I kept my mouth shut.
The métro barreled along the tracks, above ground. That’s why I like the 6, though I don’t know if it’s my favorite line. I don’t think I have a favorite line, but did I, once?
“I wonder if this door opens…” one of the girls wondered aloud to herself, fiddling with the handle. She stopped leaning on the door, the one that wouldn’t open until the train turned itself around at Charles-de-Gaulle-Étoile. I didn’t say anything to her either.
I like knowing Paris better than I know New York, knowing it well enough that when I discover some part of it I don’t know, I’m amazed and pleased. But I remember that feeling of wonder, that scrutinizing of the metro maps, that desire for everything to feel familiar and the realization, over and over and over again, of how little I knew.
I remember trying to find a place where I could buy good pâté on my first night in Paris. I remember my first floor picnic with cornichons and hot mustard and goat cheese, alone in my new apartment. I remember desperately, frantically searching for common ground with someone that was in my situation, making friends as quickly as it took to introduce yourself. I guess what’s different is that it’s not my situation anymore.
“Alors, ils sont revenus, ceux de la fac américaine ?” I said to my fromager as I paid for our tasting. He smiles. Yes, they’re back. They love it here. They have picnics on the Champ de Mars, 2, 3, 4 times a week. They like to try new cheeses. I help them find what they like.
As I left, turned away from the Champ de Mars towards the 15th, I realized that maybe I do have a bit of nostalgia left, not for a place, exactly, but for a moment, that moment.
The weather is changing again, that unmistakeable feeling of fall. The sun sets earlier. I can’t decide if I need tights or not in the morning. And while this is my eighth season in Paris, my eighth year of leaves changing, yet again, maybe, just maybe, even though I love being a regular, saying to people — because it’s true — that I’m from New York, but this is home, I miss — a little bit — what it was like when Paris was entirely filled with nothing but possibilities.
I learned that it’s a very American thing to do to mix sweet and savory back when I was at my real person job and regularly cut fruit into the giant salads I would make myself every day for month. Funnily enough, the Country Boy doesn’t seem to mind.
Chicken Burrito Bowls with Zucchini and Stone Fruit Salsa
Serves 2
For chicken:
2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 tsp. olive oil (for cooking)
1 pinch nutmeg
1/4 tsp. allspice
1 tbsp. soy sauce
1 tsp. rice vinegar
1 tsp. onion powder
salt and pepper
For beans:
1/2 pound dried black beans
1/4 onion
2 cloves garlic, smashed
1 tsp. dried coriander
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 tsp. cumin
1 chipotle chile in adobo sauce
For salsa:
1 small zucchini, grated
1 peach, diced
2 apricots, diced
1 green onion, thinly sliced
a few slices of red chile
salt and pepper
juice of 1 lime
1 tsp. olive oil
Cooked rice (or cook some rice)
The night before, soak your black beans in water and combine all of the ingredients for the chicken marinade in a plastic bag. (Leave out the olive oil; you’ll use that for cooking). Add the chicken and seal the bag. Marinate overnight.
When ready to cook, begin by draining the beans, covering them with water, and adding all of the seasonings. Cook for about 1 hour, until the beans are tender. Remove the garlic. (I also remove the chipotle, because TCB can’t stand too much heat.)
Cook some rice. You’re better off trusting your gut on this, because not once in my history of cooking have I ever made the correct amount of rice. I like brown rice, and I like to add some garlic powder and salt to it while it’s cooking.
Prepare the salsa. Place the grated zucchini on paper towels or in a colander while you chop the remaining ingredients. Squeeze out any excess water and then toss it together with everything else. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
Heat the olive oil for cooking the chicken over medium-high heat. Remove the chicken from the marinade and add to the pan. Cook about 4 minutes per side, until browned on the outside but still juicy on the inside. Set aside to cool for about 2 minutes before slicing.
Assemble the bowls. Place a layer of rice on the bottom of each bowl. Top with a heaping scoop of beans, making sure to get some of the juice. Slice the chicken widthwise and place on top. Top each bowl with a spoonful of salsa.