Spoiled Brat

I am, of course, referring to my stomach.

I suppose I should have foreseen this development. After taking it with me to Paris for four months, I don’t know who I’d be to expect anything less than an acquired constant hunger from my formerly well-behaved stomach. And when I say well-behaved, I mean it. When I broke down after seven years of vegetarianism and crammed a slice of pepperoni pizza gleefully into my face, then embarked on an expansion of my culinary palate and cooking experience with New York sirloin steak and Thai-glazed chicken satay soon after, my stomach joyously went along with it.

While the other stomachs of fallen vegetarians were busy rebelling, mine simply seemed to say, in a politely surprised way, “My, my! I haven’t had this in awhile. How delightful.” Like a proper Englishman out of a period drama really, with a dove-gray cravat and top hat and all.

When we arrived in Paris, a small trial period of adventurousness ensued while we tried the local delicacies, with marvelous success—with the exception of real Roquefort cheese, which mysteriously tastes like dry-erase markers to us. After months of becoming accustomed to baguettes with dinner and croissants on the way to class and coffees all over the place and good wine and overwhelmingly amazing quiches, my stomach took to loudly notifying me when it was time to give it some love, in case I got distracted by the monuments or the street scenes or my work.

This quickly turned into a game of let’s-get-into-awkward-public-situations-and-have-some-real-fun. I’m not sure how. I told you it was a brat.

Au bureau (at the office):

It's 9:45 a.m, office chit-chat has subsided and we've all settled in to start working. Stomach senses the time is right.

“PAIN….AU……CHOCOLAAAAAAAAT. Please.”

My coworker Elsa darted a glance up at me from her computer across from mine. I had been hoping that had gone unnoticed, but clearly, wishful thinking. I clenched my abs in a fruitless effort to silence him, like everyone does every time in a desperate attempt to stop the angry noises.

“Nice going.”

“Pain au chocolat?”

“Nothing I can do right now.”

“Then I shall grumble for TWO MORE HOURS.”

“Fine. You’ll give it up eventually.”

Two hours later:

“TOLD YOU SO.”

Elsa goes back to her typing and now pretends not to notice.

Dans le Metro (in the subway):

One major difference between the public transportation in Paris and the rest of the cities I’ve lived in is the noise level. Here’s the best way to describe it. This level change is noticeable all over the city for us loud Amuuricans, but on the Metro, where the wheels are made of rubber and don’t screech and only one out of 40 or so people is chatting on their cell phone (quietly, naturally), we may as well be sitting amongst monks.

“I know you had a café au lait this morning,” my stomach says in a hushed voice. “But guess what?”

I know what’s coming, but ask anyway. : “...what?”

“NOOOOOOOT SUFFICIENT!!!!!!”

An older woman next to me gives me a pitying and knowing glance. I awkwardly smile back, and kind of shrug in a sad little way.

“DOES SHE have a BAGUETTE in….her PurSE?”

“No, I highly doubt she has a baguette in her purse. Knock it off.”

“Then she is of no interest to us. Move ALONg.”

Parmi les bouquins (among the books, at Shakespeare & Company):

At Shakespeare & Company, the most charming little bookstore ever to burst forth from Paris, or the world, everyone mills around the cramped passageways, stacked high with books, in a reverent kind of hush.

“This sightseeing is kind of fun,” my stomach whispered, barely noticeable.

Distracted by the books and magical air of the place, I mindlessly replied, “Yeah it is, isn’t it.”

“So nice here. So nice…we got up kind of early this morning, you know. I’m really trying to work out a sched—I AM GOING TO EAT ONE OF THESE BOOKS RIGHT NOW.”

Pretty sure ol' William himself woke up with that one. I chose to nonchalantly ignore my stomach and curiously glanced around with everyone else. Smooth per usual.