According to Oprah, (and one best-selling diet book) French women never get fat. Although French obesity rates have doubled in the past decade, they still remain a fraction of American and British largesse. Yet, the French eschew exercise, embrace carbs, and revere their ample leisure time. Mind-boggling as it may be, my friends and I marvel that despite our absurd intake of pastries, baguettes, cheese, pasta, and always carrying a chocolate bar around—just in case—all of us have lost a few kilos. Maybe it’s the absence of epic dining hall gluttony, processed food, and living in a pedestrian-friendly city. It has been a slow, delicious transition. I’ve stifled the “Ohhhh the cholesterol!” voice of my grandmother (a lifelong Weight Watchers devotée). and perhaps the only Jewish grandmother to look chagrined whenever her grandchildren hesitantly ask for seconds. Instead, for my last home-cooked meal in Bordeaux, I enjoyed a half stick of butter accompanied by some rice and fish.
But old habits die hard. Going running in the Jardins Luxembourg each morning, I thought maybe I was surreptitiously passing as any other Parisian. My host mom informed me; however, during her after-dinner cigarette break, that my lame attempts at exercise were distinctly American. She couldn’t remember the last time she had ever made an effort to jog or run.
Now I’ve started to pay more attention to my fellow joggers. There were a few who could only be French: the gracefully aging elderly woman in a Chanel tracksuit and the men in short-shorts that even the most exhibitionist cross-country runners in America wouldn’t wear. But I would guess that 50-75 percent of us were expats or on a study abroad program—given away by our “Orioles,” “University of Chicago,” and “York Rugby” t-shirts. A recent Reuters article stated that “gym culture is not working out for the French”—only 5.4 percent of the population goes to a gym.
Although every proper meal here contains an exorbitant amount of cream and butter, rich and delicious food inspires pleasure, not guilt. While some Americans have a religious connection to the elliptical, it usually compensates for excessive eating and excessive stress. Call it the Protestant work ethic, the immigrant’s strive to succeed, or inborn metropolitan-area East Coast neuroticism – at home, our default mood is “stressed out.” You can deal with it on the treadmill – or when you really need to unwind, there’s always a session on the couch with Ben and Jerry’s and a Project Runway marathon.
While Paris is always bustling, their default mood is instead “je-ne-sais-quoi.” My professor gave a nonchalant, Gallic shrug as he strolled in 10 minutes late, answered his cell phone mid-lecture, and proceeded to have a five-minute conversation. In fact, this scene has played out in every class so far! Waiters don’t need to hustle for a tip here, so they are rather indifferent and act surprised when after two and a half hours it’s probably time to get the check. After ordering one espresso it is your god-given right to occupy your spot at a sidewalk café for the entire afternoon to read, make-out with your significant other, or smoke and roll your eyes at the tourists. The coffee shop rush hour just doesn’t exist here – eating and drinking your coffee on the street or the Metro is unheard of.
It’s a cliché but it’s true: the French relish their month-long paid vacations, every impossibly rich meal, and expect several days off during the fall and spring for strikes—just like Northeastern schoolchildren count on snow days. While strikes tend to piss everyone off in the U.S., the French just joyfully parade and acknowledge that it probably won’t change anything. Paris is eternally stuck in 1789, every Parisian imagines him or herself a revolutionary, but their attitude and diet is decidedly more akin to Marie Antoinette than a starving peasant. So while I am in Paris, I will have my cake and eat it too—with an entrée of foie gras, a main dish drenched in béchamel sauce—and don’t forget the cheese course, bien sûr.
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