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I wrote this in February, a little over a month after arriving to Paris. I found the stereotype of the thin Parisian woman to be not only true, but admirable considering how much of the delicious food they eat. Here I go.

The skinny baguette

The “baguette-lover” stereotype about the French is widely accepted, but the slimness of the baguette-eating Parisian women is harder to digest.

During lunch time in Paris, typically from noon to 3 p.m. – and yes, you can take that long off work to eat – women have a foot-long sandwich in one hand and a Coca-Cola inthe other. Some of them even give themselves the pleasure of indulging in a chocolate dessert. Surprisingly enough, the same skinny Parisians that stuff their mouths with carbs and fats don’t seem to gain any weight.

The average size of a sandwich is about 30 centimeters. According to caloriegallerie.com, there are 200 calories in a 10 cm long baguette. Thus, the average calorie consumption for only the bread is around 600.

Add mayonnaise or butter (200 calories), a few slices of ham (100 calories), cheese (200 calories) and veggies (10 calories) to the baguette, and voila! This delicious meal will have at least 1000 fattening calories.

After discovering the discrepancy between the fattening food and the food-lover skinny Parisian woman, American tourists are shocked. How do these women manage to maintain a healthy weight despite their love for, and constant consumption of the fattening baguette meal?

            The differences between French eating habits and those in the United States are simple. Most French women eat rich, small meals twice a day and don’t snack in between. Women enjoy every bite of their calorie-rich delicacy and when done, they are full and satisfied. Also, dinner portions in France are smaller than in the United States by at least a half. Extra large orders don’t exist, not even in fast food restaurants.

Another way Parisian women can get away with eating the sandwich every day is that one can walk most everywhere in the city.

According to a 2009 article “French women, Europe’s thinnest and most worried about weight, report finds” in the guardian.co.uk, French women are the slimmest in Western Europe.

But despite this claim, Parisian women don’t seem to sacrifice the “jambon-fromage” for the fear of gaining weight.

The only things they gain are a few jealous stares.

One of the typical dinners chez moi..  good wine and lots of cheese and bread.

I am back to the blogging world, but with no intention of writing just yet. I will instead post a series of articles I wrote during a journalism exchange program I did at Sciences Po. in Paris. during the first semester of 2011. You’ll read musings from the essence of french loving, to the well-kept secret of skinny french women to hardships of immigration. In short, a few snippets of the most beautiful and romantic city in the world seen through the eyes of a 21-year-old Argentine girl living in the USA.

A.

By Agus

Her name was Joy. Limbs long and golden like the sun stuck out of a light blue dress, as soft as the sand beneath the wiggling toes. Her hair was long and white-blonde, running down her back and dancing in the soft sea breeze. Freckles covered her nose and cheeks, clumped on her shoulders and delicately showered down her arms. Her mind was filled with desire to play, curiosity tickling her skull, tingling and bubbling up behind her eyes, playing in the form of a fantasy the way it would be to kiss the ocean. “How sweet,” she sang in her honey voice, agreeing verbally to her silent thoughts.

The ocean was big, blue, and endearing. It was the place lucky people found after years of searching. More than that, it was embracing and warm. It was fun, and dangerous but lovely to every human sense. There were people out there—unlucky and sad—that had searched but never found the path. Others found it, but as soon as they blinked, the ocean was gone. Those people wept, and their sad songs could be heard as the waves crashed on the sand.

Joy was one of the lucky people that had found the ocean, full of its majestic essence, and bluer than the satin sky above. She danced by the shore along with the waves, her feet moving closer to the water, then quickly retreating before it could touch her. She teased it, and no matter how much the ocean pulled towards her, Joy always kept her feet dry. Any other person would have dived in greedily, but Joy knew better. Though her heart was young and her mind was pure, Time fought against her, letting Adulthood slowly drip to her mind, thick as oil and black as ink. Soon enough it would taint her unclouded spirit, run from inside out, out her pores, dying the soft blue dress into something unrecognizable. It was that powerful. Even just a droplet, which now resided in her head, could change everything.

What Joy knew and others didn’t was that great pain came with the sea. Sure, the large body of water was the most beautiful sight a human had ever seen, and it evoked the warmest feeling possible, but it also provoked the worst one: desperation. As soon as a person dove in, it was as if he was born again, with the spirit of a sea creature but the necessities of a land mammal. The need to submerge until every cell of his body was underwater pulled stronger than any other physical need. But humans need to breathe, and humans need to walk, and eat, and live. Humans can’t dive in the ocean and live in it forever. Joy knew this. Joy knew that everything great had to come to an end, and every big love left a deep pain.

Joy never went in the ocean, and in those moments when she thought the water would grab a hold of her ankles and pull her in she let out a whimper, a cry of fright. The ocean was beautiful, and it was grandiose, but there would be a time when she would have to leave it, and the agony of it would be too great to bear. So Joy decided to simply watch as it danced around her, and as people got pulled in and then later spit out. She would listen as it called to her, but those siren calls had no power over her anymore. Joy watched from a distance and knew that, despite what those weeping shells of people sobbed about, it was better to not get in, to not have the ocean suck the soul out of her, suck what love she had inside of her to keep it hostage.

As beautiful as the ocean was, the little girl chose to stay away from it; her young heart was the only smart one to know that having swam among the waves was not worth the despair, and that not having dived in at all was the sensible verdict.

For an hour, I was back. Back at the countless mornings and afternoons where I’d sit at the high round table, alone or in company of old friends, new friends, or strangers who would sit down to chat and make me see life in new colors. Many “coffee dates” and other “dates” where we had coffee. Back to the people-watching,  people-loving and sometimes people-judging from afar. Sometimes seeing friends as they swiftly made their way through the crowd to class, to eat, to the gym, to sing. I  studied their delicate or sharp moves, read their expressions, and loved them for loving me.

I was back at the place where I hastened to finish many last-minute french papers, where I poured my heart and soul to the pages of my moleskine taking the place of to-do’s, where I persistently worked on everything Paris, where I became one with hispanic/latino literature and where I struggled to get my stories’ sources to return my calls.

Back to the hours that flew by as I chatted away with my girls, my best friends, my mentors since the first semester of University.  Sharing laughs, stories, learning from them to see God’s presence everyday. Faith becoming stronger, security in myself and Him. Thankful for them who love me and teach me and listen and guide me and watch me go and learn, make mistakes and come back to them and go once again. Support system, friends, family.

And I was back, looking at the rectangular dip, seeing the place where I saw him for the second time, remembering the feeling of curiosity tickling my lips, the strong, fixed connection his baby blues made with my deep chocolate ones and I remember how intrigued, yet secure I felt when I chose to walk south. I also saw the spot, right on the opposite side, so far from but not so long after, where the fixation ended in a sweet conversation with empty promises and make beliefs. My heart still filled with hope and expectation.

The place where I spent an afternoon pouring colors of the rainbow, radiant and pure, into a spinning machine… putting creativity to chance, creating the so-called spin art which now, framed and hanging from my wall, adds color and a tangible and visual representation of my personality to my room. The place where I spent a memorable fall afternoon with my friends, CK new and old, eating warm cookies right out of the oven of Lenoir, chocolate dripping from the soft golden batch. Chatting, playing, loving.

The steps where I’d stand to have the front-row view of my friends as they sang their hearts out to a capella songs they performed better than the original, giving me soft, sweet chills and making me tear up in admiration, as their angelic voices made my deepest sentiments reclaim their space in my thoughts. Applause.

The place where I learned more about the art of fishing and the power of English literature than I ever imagined learning. The place where I taught more about immigration laws, struggles and successes than he ever imagined learning. Getting close to and sharing many cups of coffee and stories with the free spirit, loving friend that I know care for deeply.

So many thoughts went on through my head today as I looked outside. Why did I tear up? I’m sensitive and I love.. hard. I love people and memories and I love the view and my coffee.  I don’t live off of memories, but I sure treasure them. How odd to think that this round table by the window would hold so many memories and trigger other ones.  So many moments of reflection and growing up. So many conversations about life choices. Realizing that I first need to do things for me, then others, and think of myself first. Growth.

Silly to think that I wouldn’t want to leave this behind for eight months, but I hope to find a place, a table, a window, a delicious cup of coffee that will, at the end of my stay, trigger the special memories I’ll make of my future adventures.

*

Wow. How I love this place. I love my mocha with whipped cream drizzled in chocolate and topped off with the chocolate covered coffee bean… perfection.

Trying to explain my friends the exact reason I have to go to various places to get the infamous “visa” is sometimes exhausting. Not because I don’t like telling them; if anything, I want them to know exactly why I need to do what I do or what the process is, but because sometimes I don’t even understand everything that goes on. I just know that because I am in this country with a Visa, I must keep renewing it or in my case now, get a new one.

Here’s the deal. I turn 21 on January, and I must leave the country before my birthday so that I am not “out of status”. That means that I will no longer depend from my parents, so I have to get my own visa – a student one. As some of my friends put it, I have to “flee the country.” Well, yes. But not exactly. The reason why I have to leave is because I did not start my papers early enough. Since I am studying in Paris in the spring – fingers crossed so everything with the travel visa works out!- then I have to start my student visa process while I’m abroad. I could not start it here and then leave the country because it would get canceled.

So this is what I’ll need to do – start my student visa when I’m in Paris. But here’s the catch. With a student visa, I could not come back to the States until a month before school starts. See you in July, USA! I might be stuck in Europe. But I guess there are worse things.

Last week my dad and I went to Atlanta to get my French visa. Every student that plans on studying there needs one, not just me! I am not special. Good thing. I am hoping to get it this week, but the woman behind the desk had a discouraging look on her face. Reason why: I have to leave france when the program ends, but I still don’t have the visa that says I can come back here. Tricky. So I had to get a last-minute plane ticket from Paris to Argentina! Let’s hope that works.

In the midst of everything, I became an Italian citizen! Certo! Excellent for a couple of reasons – As an Italian, I would not need a visa to go anywhere in Europe. I can even work! I can travel as I please. But I need the Italian passport to do that. So tonight, a week after getting back from hotlanta for one visa, I am going to Philadelphia for a passport! Yes. The life of an immigrant.

It’s beginning to get kind of “fun.” Sometimes I wish things were easier… but I don’t really know how to do things the “easy” way. In the past 2 months I have learned more about immigration and traveling than ever before! And my friends probably did too. You are all very welcome.

You mean all I have to do is sign this paper and all will be good and done? Mmmmh… Can I just swim with sharks? I’m more comfortable doing that.

Ahhh my life!

A.