Le Job, Le Bigmac, Le Studyabroad

V: Yeah baby, you'd dig it the most. But you know what the funniest thing about Europe is?

J: What?

V: It's the little differences. I mean, they got the same shit over there that they got here, but it's just – it's just there it's a little different.

J: Example?

V: All right. Well, you can walk into a movie theater in Amsterdam and buy a beer. And I don't mean just like in no paper cup, I'm talking about a glass of beer. And in Paris, you can buy a beer at McDonald's. And you know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?

J: They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?

V: Nah, man, they got the metric system. They wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.

J: What do they call it?

V: They call it a "Royale with Cheese."

J: "Royale with Cheese."

V: That's right.

J: What do they call a Big Mac?

V: A Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call it "Le Big Mac".

 

**

 

I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to think of some way to summarize or explicate the last two weeks to the blogosphere, if not to myself.  It turns out there is no way of describing S… A… without sounding contrived.  Shocker.  Everything I’ve been doing, and everything I will do for the next six months, has been done countless times before by dimwitted liberal arts school students from Boston to sunny Southern California.  Nonetheless, I refuse to let this project die, and this two week hiatus will come to an end right now, whether that implies I’m retracing a clichéd story or not.

It seems that the internet has surpassed cultural difference.  Of course, we all know this at least nominally, and the influx of foreign music, media, etc. etc. into America has been evident for some time now.  But I guess I remain somewhat shocked how similar “Bobo” culture is, from Paris to New York to L.A.  We sit around, we laugh about this that and the other thing, and we sip beverages to pass the time.  If we can’t find a suitable living room, we go to Starbucks, or we pay too much money to sit at a dimly lit bar playing music we probably have on our iPods.  Last night on the subway (ou bien, le Metro) I heard a couple girls discussing this song “Kids” that they’re really sick of hearing.  Of course, it’s a gross overstatement to say that difference has been wholly effaced. The cultural proximity of Paris to New York is a whole lot closer than, say, Sri Lanka and New York (M.I.A not withstanding). 

So yeah, there surely are barriers that remain intact and only the future knows what will become of the “rest” of the world.  But, as Vincent said, it’s the little things that really strike me.  No, not the little differences—it’s the little similarities that really get me.  In a conversation several days ago, in reference to a car, Antoine called “shotgun,” in heavily accented French, as though it were just another word, like “pain” “voiture” or “garcon.”  This was followed by calls of “non putain,” and an argument about the rules of the game.  When a head of state is inaugurated, one ought to describe the event as l’investiture; Tuesday afternoon, the talk around Paris was all about l’inauguration.  And, despite my rejection of the vile substance, the local supermarket has Skippy’s Peanut Butter.  Apparently, that is a big deal.