Packing for a RTW Trip

In two days I leave for a long-awaited and meticulously planned journey that will take me south, then east, to every continent except Antarctica and South America as I gradually make my way home to the US over the course of the next three months.  Preparation has been vital (just look at my giant Google spreadsheet full of flights, trains, hostel and Airbnb reservations), but what made this trip tricky is that I'm doing it all with a carry-on. This won't be a backpacking trip in the sense that I'm not using a backpack (I'm so short I would just look like that little kid from the movie Up, not to mention I sweat like a motherfucker and in previous experiences backpacks just exacerbate it) nor am I going to the jungle or climbing mountains. Nope, I'm just your average urban explorer with a small rolling suitcase.

Here's what I'm taking:

- Painstakingly curated selection of clothing

- My two North Face jackets for after I cross the equator (one of them even folds up inside the pocket)

- Shower shoes, Jesus sandals and espadrilles

- Toiletries and make-up (liquids ready to go in a Ziploc bag) 

- iPad with Bluetooth keyboard case

- Day bag

- DSLR with wide-angle lens

- Moleskine

- A bunch of drugs prescribed to me by a travel doctor here in Paris. Everything is in French so hopefully if/when the time comes I'll know how to use them properly...

Unpacking the Meaning of Objects, Stuff and Other Things

For the past few weeks I've been living under constant fear that my roommate will tell me a prospective tenant is coming by to check out the room (i.e. my current room, but only for another ten days). It's an absolute mess. And not in the "just give me a few minutes while I tidy up" sort of way; no, I'm talking legitimate disaster zone. Because I'm not just packing to leave, I'm also sorting through what I want to take with me on my upcoming three-month trip.

I came to Paris with two large suitcases and two carry-ons - altogether more than my own body weight worth of clothes, shoes and bags. When my brother helped load the car to drop me off at the airport he scornfully said that one should never take more than she could carry by herself. Now, especially since I've accumulated even more things, I'm beginning to think he was right. 

Of course there's always a way to get things somewhere else, but it's a question of how much you're willing to pay. The sender and receiver both pay taxes, for instance, and if you want the parcel picked up at your place of residence that's even more in fees. Filling out forms at the post office this afternoon, I found myself staring at the empty space for "declared value (€)." How much was my box of school recipes and slightly stained chef uniforms worth? Apart from the obvious (I paid a pretty penny for those white jackets and took a lot of notes on recipe procedures), in this instance I think personal value exceeded any remaining commercial value. And yet it still cost me 109€ to send them back to the states.

Towards the end of my college career I took several classes that dealt with signaling theory and its social applications, which got me thinking - why do we feel compelled to accumulate so many things in the first place? I was reading a lot of Marx at the time, and was particularly fascinated by his theory of intrinsic value via commodity fetishism.  

Commodity fetishism is the process of ascribing magic “phantom-like” qualities to an object, whereby the human labour required to make that object is lost once the object is associated with a monetary value for exchange. Under capitalism, once the object emerges as a commodity that has been assigned a monetary value for equivalent universal exchange, it is fetishized, meaning that consumers come to believe that the object has intrinsic value in and of itself. The object’s value appears to come from the commodity, rather than the human labor that produced it. 
- Patricia Louie

Having spent practically my entire life surrounded by middle/upper-middle class America, I was so accustomed to the sort of behavior that commodity fetishism breeds that it took reading Marx, Veblen and other scholars to see the folly of it. Prime example: conspicuous consumption, or rather the acquisition of material goods in order to display economic power. In high school and college I was guilty of "label-whoring," i.e. buying things more for the brand than any other particular reason. From True Religion jeans to London Sole flats and Marc Jacobs sunglasses, you can try to argue that the price is justified by the quality, but it probably isn't. And denim, especially, is susceptible to arbitrary price setting. 

If it's not about the quality or the little to non-existent intrinsic value, accumulation of material goods emerges as a great symbolizer, sending signals to others about our "quality" (economic power and status, in this example, but signaling theory has many other applications). So why is it that the middle class tends to be the biggest consumers? I suppose it goes back to the old wealth/new money divide à la Great Gatsby. Those of us still trying to climb the socioeconomic ladder feel compelled to engage in flashy, runaway displays of conspicuous consumption while those at the top don't; in fact in some cases the elite prefer not to signal their status.

Now that I'm sorting through everything I brought with me (and the sad thing is that it's not even a fraction of what I own), I find myself wondering why I have many items in the first place. I suppose if I looked hard enough I could find the French equivalent of Salvation Army to donate to, but it would have been so much easier if I had simply not purchased them in the first place. I'm sure I thought it mattered when I pulled out my credit card, but being surrounded by so much stuff leaves me feeling decidedly unfulfilled. 

I felt inspired reading this op-ed about downsizing, not only because I identified with how exhausting it can be just to keep track of all the things you own, but also it's my goal to lead a more meaningful life via experiences and interactions with others rather than filling it with inanimate objects.

My space is small. My life is big. - Graham Hill

For once I'm actually looking forward to living out of a suitcase. 

To Bisous or Not to Bisous

In one of our first cultural lessons in French class we learned that the customary greeting is to give bisous - kisses on both cheeks (although its really more like brushing cheeks while making a kissing noise). The textbook also stated that it's perfectly normal for guys to give each other bisous but in reality I've witnessed this occur very few times; guys generally shake hands with each other while bisous are reserved for guys greeting girls or girls greeting other girls.

For the longest time I was in the habit of only giving bisous when the other person initiated it. On the one hand it is a very French thing to do and seeing as I am not French, I would personally feel like a huge tool if I made it everyday practice. Furthermore my impression of non-French people who do this is that it's a cheap trick in an attempt to come off as being sophisticated. (I don't care how many times you've been to Paris Fashion Week, Rachel Zoe, but the fact remains that you are très Américaine). But more importantly I don't particularly like being touched. Think about it. Someone else's face brushing right up against yours, especially if it's a person you just met seconds ago for the first time? For me it's way too intimate. Handshakes, hugs or fist bumps seem more proper, but maybe that's just me.

It used to be that when I recognized someone going in for the bisous I would sort of stiffen, like bracing myself for contact. Thanks to my internship, though, I've learned to adapt.

Whenever anyone entered the kitchen the first thing they did was systematically say, "Bonjour," to each and every person. For 99% of people this also involved bisous, with the one exception being the founder of the pastry shop; he shook your hand, or your wrist if you were in the middle of something and your hands were dirty. And this is perhaps what I found most surprising: that people - even those whom you hadn't officially been introduced to - would stand next to you and wait until you paused, turned, and said hello. This could be uncomfortable at times because certain individuals at work went a little heavy on the cologne/after-shave/whatever scents guys use.

My etiquette was terrible, apparently, because I should have been making this a habit since day one. It's not that I considered myself exempt from exchanging pleasantries, but as a lowly intern I figured no one would really notice or care if I didn't. But one morning after pecking one of my friendlier co-workers on both cheeks, she told me I ought to go around and personally greet everyone. Naturally I was only told this about halfway through my time there. No wonder no one talked to me at lunch; they all probably thought I was antisocial.

Personal issues aside, this custom seemed quite counterintuitive in an environment that placed such great emphasis on speed and productivity but, well, French people. In America I'm pretty sure making eye contact and uttering a simple, "Hey," even from across the room, would suffice in most situations.

The one positive of bisous as far as I've experienced is that some people full on kiss you on the cheek. So if it's say, a hot guy, you can pretend that the gesture isn't completely platonic. Trivial, I know, but a girl can dream, right?

On Boys, Cakes and Getting in Trouble

Supplying a large volume of pastries daily to our three boutiques as well as a host of other clients, the vast, windowless offsite kitchen just outside Paris where I did my internship was a considerable operation. I'm no good at estimating square footage (and even worse with meters), but to give you some idea of the scale:

• I worked with a team of about a dozen others.
• In addition to the main lab, there were separate rooms for each the pesée (weighing ingredients) , four (ovens) and tour (large machine that churned out laminated doughs).
• The primary walk-in freezer (yes there was more than one) was about the size of the biggest kitchen at LCB.

Everything was prepared by the hundreds (or more - the last time we made chaussons aux pommes I calculated over a thousand turnovers), and then frozen to be baked and/or finished later.

Normally I worked in rotating teams in the main lab, but after about a month into the internship I would periodically be assigned to S, the chef in charge of le four . I'm fairly certain this all started because everyone else was tired of dealing with me - with my slowness and clumsy French - but I didn't care; S was the first person who extended kindness and patience, eventually becoming one of the few true friends I made there. She was the life preserver that helped me stay afloat in a new and (at least in the beginning) unfriendly environment, and I learned a lot from her.

*** 

During my final week I switched from the day shift (7am - 4pm) to working nights (10pm - 7am). While adjusting my schedule to sleep during the day was brutal, I found that I really enjoyed the night shift. Whereas during the day we mostly did prep work and intermediate steps, the night crew finished everything to be delivered on time in the morning. So in a way the tasks felt like more of an accomplishment because the results were so tangible; for most of the night we worked to put together and garnish everything until the deliverymen came to take the pastries away.

On one particular night I was, once again, assigned to work in the four . But instead of S the pâtissier in charge was a young guy, about my age, whom I'll call A because he was Algerian and also very attractive, to the point where each time he showed me how to do something I was more focused on looking at him rather than what he was doing. Over the course of the next several hours this made for several silly, careless mistakes on my part.

"C'est pas grave," he would say, with a slight smile, showing me once again how to do the thing correctly. And all was forgiven. 

The following night I was back in the main lab working with the manager when A, en route to the plonge to drop off dirty dishes, came up behind me and proclaimed, in English, "I miss you."

As he walked away I asked the manager if he was always like that. 

"Ouai," she said emphatically. 

*** 

In addition to the ovens, le four also houses a few other machines that I can only describe as giant food processors with temperature control mechanisms. S had shown me how to use them to prepare various crèmes and confit  in giant quantities, but with A I made praliné , a kind of syrupy paste derived from caramelized hazelnuts and almonds. We had learned about praliné in our first lesson at LCB, and I distinctly remember chef saying not to attempt to make it at home because the processing of the caramelized nuts to achieve the final product is too much for domestic machines. (In fact, as a consultant to kitchen equipment companies, he often uses praliné as a test to see if the motors on food processors are up to strength).  

A explained how they first heat the water and sugar to 118C, then add the nuts and periodically scrape down the sides of the mixer as the mixture caramelized. My job was to watch the temperature of the syrup, since between that, making crème pâtissiere in the adjacent machine, and monitoring the simultaneous baking in the three ovens, he was likely to forget. I suppose my presence was an additional distraction, but from what I could tell it was a welcome one. Afterwards the contents of the mixer were emptied into large metal trays to be taken to the Robocoup in the main lab.

Interns rarely got to touch any of the machines, perhaps for good reason. I had been instructed to use the industrial processor (Robocoup) before, but each time something always went awry. Either I messed up assembling all the parts and the machine wouldn't turn on, or I didn't mix the contents enough, or I made a huge mess when emptying the bowl. The night I was to blend the praliné into its final form - also the last night of my internship - was no exception.

A colleague helped me set everything up, explaining that the machine could only take 3-4 trays of caramelized nuts at once and that I was to leave it on the highest setting for exactly four-and-a-half minutes. I did exactly that, but when I came back and opened the machine after the timer went off, instead of a nice homogenous liquid there was a grainy paste. Puzzled, I called the same colleague over, who determined that the blade hadn't been locked in properly and the motor had jammed. Naturally, this was the exact time that the executive chef came in. 

I understood enough of what the chef, an intimidating and fast-talking sort, was saying to my colleague to know that he was berating me for not being French and therefore not understanding how things are done. I could have been thrown under the bus right then and there, but instead my colleague claimed responsibility because it was she who had initially set up the machine. At that moment I felt immensely relieved that the chef and I had never had a formal introduction and that therefore he didn't know my name; I suppose from now on I'll just be remembered as the intern that broke the Robocoup.

*** 

Each shift had only one brief break. During the day it was for lunch, usually taken around 12:30pm at the cafeteria of the complex that housed the kitchen, and at night we had "breakfast" at 5am after the goods had been dispatched, when we feasted on all the superfluous or damaged pastries that couldn't be sold. For me it was much too early to be eating rich mousse cakes and cream-filled choux pastry, so I always reached for the viennoiserie (brioche, pain chocolat) and tea cakes that were scraps from the four. My favorite? The dainty little Financiers.

When I worked with A he showed me how to fill the molds with batter (almost to the top but not quite) and then, using another piping bag with the smallest tip cut off, inject a bit of praliné into the center. The result was an insanely addictive little almond cake.

Alas, the recipes at work were also off-limits to interns, but this one from Dorie Greenspan comes pretty close.  And unless you have a professional grade food processor at home (or even if you do...), I'd suggest buying your praliné from the store.

Something à la Mode

One of the biggest adjustments to post-internship life, apart from sleeping, is what to do in my newly abundant free time. The Hôtel de Ville  (city hall) just across the Seine from my neighborhood periodically puts on free expositions, and because I missed out on the last one - Paris vu par Hollywood  / Paris Seen Through Hollywood, I was determined to go to the current fashion exhibit.

I like fashion but I definitely wouldn't call myself fashionable; I'm more the type that reads blogs and flips through magazines rather than actually try trends myself. I do quite enjoy fashion exhibits, though. Highlights include Alexander McQueen at the Met, Balenciaga at the de Young, and Vivienne Westwood at MoMA. Maybe it's because that, as a middle class pleb, these shows are the closest I'll ever get to haute couture other than walking through Neiman Marcus. Also I'm a big fan of classic fashion photography. Richard Avedon for Harper's Bazaar and Vogue? Sublime.

I think I would be remiss in discussing life in Paris without addressing fashion. I noticed right away upon arriving that people put more effort in to their appearances, and it works - they look good! Then again, consider my standards: my hometown helped popularize flannel shirts in the '90s and, more recently, thrifting.  (Sorry, can't hide that Seattle pride). And whereas I would often run errands or go to class wearing sweatpants, I never, ever, leave my Paris apartment in anything resembling athletic attire unless I'm actually going to work out. (And even then I feel mildly self-conscious).

Fashion exhibits are a fascinating exercise in people watching because they inevitably draw out the best-dressed crowds. Either that or people dress up for them. Paris Haute Couture was no exception. I overheard a couple of well-coiffed elderly women complaining that the exhibit shouldn't have been free since there were too many people, but I beg to differ. It was nothing compared to the McQueen exposition - I went on the closing day, waited two hours to get inside, paid for my ticket and still experienced an absolute wall-to-wall sea of people.

I often wonder if living in Paris has changed me in the sartorial sense. Well, I definitely layer and wear flats and scarves more often.  Does that count?

Forgot to take down the designer but the one on the right was one of my favorite pieces in the exhibit.

Two iterations of Chanel suits.

Paris Haute Couture at Hôtel de Ville open through July 6, 2013. Metro Hôtel de Ville, enter at 5 Rue de Lobau. 10-7 every day except Sundays and holidays. And the best part - it's free!