I snapped a picture of this new McDonald’s ad in the Paris metro system a few days ago. Apparently, McDonald’s chains in France have added a new dessert to the menu—a frappé, a Frenchisized version of a milkshake—and these advertisements have gone up all over Paris. Despite rising obesity rates in France, here’s a clue as to why French people “don’t get fat”: while we’re super-sizing portions in the U.S., McDonalds in France are super-smalling portions. (Seriously, I’ve seen shots of vodka that are bigger!) To make sure my eyes weren’t fooling me with some whack Photoshop job, I browsed the McDonald’s France website to find nutrition information for this frappé. (Which, I might add, proved to be extremely difficult. For a web-savvy person fluent in French, it took me over 10 minutes to find because this info must either be a) downloaded as a PDF format, or b) found on an entirely different website. Scandal! But I digress …)
The McDonald’s frappé in France is served in a portion of 167 grams. The smallest sized milkshake in the United States clocks in at 332 grams. Keep reading »
Attendez! OK, I know my farewell post has gone up, but here’s a little extra bonus. After the jump, a chronological summary of 365 Days in Paris. Bref, what happens when you move to Paris for a year … Keep reading »
During my 10 months or so in Paris, there came a real low point in mid-January. A few weeks before, I’d been completely ripped apart by my ex from Amsterdam, Alex, who came back into my life for a brief New Year’s romance, only to leave me (inevitably) disappointed that we’d never have a relationship. Some 10 days after our official break-off, I was at a rock concert, when all of a sudden, in the middle of a crowd of Parisian hipsters, I began bawling. Uncontrollably. The kind of childlike crying where snot and tears prune your face, forming a sticky, moist mess on your blouse. I somehow made my way out of the club, feeling my way to the subway like I was in a dream, wailing without volume control. Slumped on a chair in the nearly-deserted République metro stop, I didn’t even try to subdue my outburst, doing only as best I could to hide my face. At one point, a young woman passed me and stopped. “Ça va, mademoiselle?” she asked. I couldn’t even see her through my tears. “Ça va?” she asked again. I somehow nodded, and began crying harder out of embarrassment.
It was this moment that made me question every decision I’ve made in the past year … Keep reading »
French men are very well dressed. (Take it from me, someone who lives in Paris and often feels like she’s walking in a living version of Sartorialist heaven.) They also just know things about fashion in the way that American guys just know things about football or Mila Kunis. A new study further proves that dudes in France are style-inclined: they have a lot of clothes. Research conducted by the French Fashion Institute shows that these males, “aged between 15 and 29 spend as much on clothes as women of their age” and that “young French men fussed as much over appearances as women their age yet spent less time and energy picking and choosing clothes.” Great, so basically the French manage to be into how they look, but never have fashion freak-outs. Where did we go wrong?
We have to imagine that a man with a huge closet might affect dating dynamics. Have you ever been with a guy who owns a crap load of clothes? Is a male clotheshorse a good or a bad thing? [AFP] Keep reading »
When Henri and I got on the train this morning to go back to Paris after our long weekend at his parents’ house, I genuinely didn’t want to go home. Well, not like I wanted to plant down my roots in the middle of Nowheresville, France, but as the train chugged away from the mountainside, I didn’t feel ready for our mini-break to be over.
In my experience, at the beginning of a relationship, mini-getaways or weekends spent entirely alone can be make or break moments. Forcing two people together for literally every minute of a three or four day period either drives you crazy or brings you both closer together. Honestly, I wasn’t worried that our first vacation would negatively change things between me and Henri. I was more concerned that this time we had set aside for ourselves would end up being more exhausting and stressful with his family factored in. Keep reading »
There comes a moment (or a couple hundred) in every young woman’s life when she says to herself, Man, I wish I hadn’t been so effing drunk. Of course, the natural remedy to these scenarios would be to, um, not drink? Or, you could drink Outox. The beverage, which was released today in France, has been called “magic” and “revolutionary,” as ingesting it supposedly lowers the alcohol content in your bloodstream rapidly. Which, claims Outox makers, would make you less drunk as well as help prevent hangovers. Keep reading »