Leaving Party and Dinner
We had our "Work" leaving party today, to which we brought all of our remaining alcohol (Chartreuse VEP, nice Sake, Ouzo, wine by the case, etc etc). People really loved the cheese plate, and in particular the Camembert au Calvados. Surprisingly, the second and third packages of party time crabs were also a big hit! Earlier in the day, we had managed to set up our mail forwarding to the US (very farkin expensive) and sold our Clio 1.4 RT for a song to a postdoc at the IBS.
The giant cheese plate had been ordered from les Alpages, and we had picked it up earlier that day. I had almost started crying when the Fromagiers at les Alpages pointed to my show announcement up on the wall and asked me how the photography was going. I realize that some explanation is necessary, since those of you who know me probably realize that this is a somewhat atypical response on my part.
When I had first arrived in France in 2002, I had immediately fallen in love with Les Alpages. We lived a block away in Place Vaucanson, and even though I spoke two words of french, it was the first store (apart from boulangeries) that I managed to summon the courage to enter alone. I spent a not insignificant amount of time preparing for my first unaided visit, having looked up the words in the dictionary and gotten advice from Chloe. I picked a time of day during which I had hoped that very few people would be in the store, and moved in for the kill. As I trudged forward in the line, I rehearsed my lines to myself. I looked at all the cheeses that I would NOT be oredering because they were outside my script. I paid attention to the feigned nonchallance with which the old ladies ordered their cheeses : I knew that they were just as terrified as I was. Everything was going according to my plan. However, when I finally got to the counter, I panicked and asked for 500 kilograms of comte instead of 500 grams. After the large bald fromagier in a white apron burst out laughing and asked if I wanted to buy the whole store (500 kg is about a half ton of cheese), I turned bright red and said 500 grams please! By that time, a huge line had built up behind me which stretched out the door. They were all laughing and enjoying the mental picture of this American walking out of the store with a wheelbarrow full of cheese. Then I took a month off from cheese buying. Little by little things got easier, and although we moved further away, I still managed to get back there from time to time. I learned that it was "Comte de Montagne, and not Comte de la Montagne, and Tomme Crayeuse, not Tomme cremeuse. My relationship with the store was a kind of abridged and poetic version of my stay in France; all the heartbreak, embarassment, frustration and joy of expat living in little snapshots punctuated by the ringing of the bells on their big glass door. I will miss you, les alpages.
