I've gotten used to blowing smoke out of my face, and I'm learning how to use the wind to do the work for me.  Parisiens smoke.  A lot.  Luckily, most people only do it outside; although, I have already had a few run-ins with those not afraid to smoke inside a metro car (as well as those not afraid to be completely drunk inside a metro).  You can't pick and choose which parts of someone's culture that you get to experience, and I suppose it wouldn't be the same if you could.

Culture is such a funny thing.  It's like breathing--something locals do without thinking and would never think we would need to explain why it is the way that it is.  I'll give just a few examples all from one night; last night.  I went to a restaurant with two friends, both French girls.  The server brought us out some bread as we decided what we wanted to eat (much like any American restaurant), but there wasn't any butter.  I asked one of the girls where the butter was, and I only got a perplexed look in response.  Her eyes said it all: "Why would you want butter?"  I was particularly confused because a French breakfast usually consists of little more than bread and butter (often with jam and coffee as well).  After explaining to her just this she said, "Yes, but that's for breakfast.  Not for dinner" as if I had asked her to explain why ice melts or why we say "please" and "thank you."

That was only my first faux pas.  I finished my meal quickly; european portions just don't compare to what we get in the U.S.  Having said that, the quality of food is head and shoulders above what we have in the States.  It was obvious that one of my friends wasn't going to finish her meal and, having seen that I was still hungry, asked me if I wanted some of hers.  I said, "Tu veux pas l'apporter? You don't want to take it with you?"  She let out a little gasp (yes, a gasp--not an exaggeration; gasping is almost a part of how the French speak, though) and simply said, "Ça se fait pas/We don't do that."  This time it was me who didn't understand.  She explained, again exasperated, that it was impolite to take the food from a restaurant. [At work today I told this story, and I was informed that some restaurants in Paris have begun allowing people to take their leftovers with them due to pressure from tourists.  They call the box used to take the food a "doggybag."  I had never heard that before, but apparently some Americans on the east coast call it the same thing].

Do these differences really matter?  Of course not.  But they add up to form the cultural underpinnings of a society.  Sometimes I feel the need to sit back and watch to figure out what I'm doing.  I feel like a native more and more every day, even just after a little over two weeks.  Whereas before I never thought I'd figure out the underground city that is the Paris metro system, now I'm already tired of tourists getting in my way.

I get caught up writing about the culture and the language that I forget to include anything about my internship.  I really really enjoy it.  I'm so glad I did this internship after my internship with the Senate; the work I do for the embassy is so much more substantial than what I did for our little committee.  I'm busy almost all day every day.  Today I wrote up a report on education opportunities for British students in the U.S. (it's a long story as to why I was doing it about British students instead of French ones).  I polished the report and then promptly put someone else's name on it.  That's the life of the intern: make the boss look good and don't take any of the credit!  I'm just grateful to be able to work in a place that values my work and keeps giving me plenty to do.

A la prochaine,
Brian