Hello, my name is Petite Américaine

"Kärt barn har många namn” is a Swedish expression that means, "A dear child has many names." You've hit the nail on the head, Sweden. Tack (thanks).

I love names. I love giving (not calling) people names, and I love receiving them. Sometimes long, sometimes short, nicknames are the beer and cheese (delicious essentials) of friendship. Nicknames are how I tell someone that she (or he) is not just a regular old girl (or boy) with a regular old name, but that she (or he) is an indispensable character in my life, worthy of a special name. Like knighthood, but without the sword.

I love that different nicknames work in different languages. Here in Francy Pants, lots of people call me la petite américaine, or petite Sonia. In English, these both sound condescending (Hey there, little American! See you soon, little Sonia!) and this would not fly with me at home. Americans don't call each other "little" anything (and being American is too mainstream for a nickname). 

But the French slip the word petit(e) in wherever possible, and it just sounds endearing and/or affectionate. There's the classic French petit café, a shot of espresso in a teeny cup with a tiny spoon. Logical. But I've also heard men talk about their petite bière while nursing a liter of the stuff. In this case, I understand it to mean that one liter is a mere drop in the bucket of beer over the course of a life. 

What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

Not so fast, Juliet! There's a lot you can't see from that balcony, namely the beauty and majesty of a good name. (Girl was in love, probably not thinking about nicknames.)

I love giving people names that stick. Who knew that Yiddish-izing Tove into Tovela would work so well? Or that a simple Sassy Sis could say so much? Or that gentle Vincent could become the mighty V-meister? All this magic with a little tap of my nickname wand.

I love my name in these parts because no one mispronounces it; none of that SAWN-ya business I hear in the States. It's SONE-ya, good lord, SONE-ya! But pronounced in French, the emphasis is on the second syllable: sone-YA.

Case in point: when American friends are happy to see me on the internet, they write, "Soooooooooonia!" When French friends are happy to see me on the internet, they write, "Soniaaaaaaaaaa!"

I'd bet a block of Brie that the most popular French girl names (of my generation) begin with A and M; in mon petit portable, my humble cellular telephone, I have six of each: Adeline, Amandine, Anais, Annie, Audrey, Aurélie. Marie, Maryse, Marion, Marine, Maryne, Myriam. Très français. So French.

No traceable letter trends with boy names. "Quentin" remains a nightmare to pronounce: kohn-tahn, not kahn-tohn. See what I mean?


For now I'll only say that while

a rose is a rose is a rose,

a good name is the loveliest rose in the garden.

Where bröd is king

Tove told me a surprise was coming. 

Dessert? I squealed hopefully. Ooh, I know! Swedish pancakes? Not edible, she replied. Hm. A non-edible surprise? I was skeptical.

We were flying from Malmö, Sweden, to Stockholm. Malmö is the southern port town where Tove grew up and where, in 1945, my German grandmother, my Oma, spent a year recovering from concentration camps. At that point, her parents and sister were dead. I thought about my family across the ocean.

The day Tove and I spent in Malmö was rainy and gray, so we passed a cozy afternoon in a cafe that smelled wonderfully of roasting coffee beans. At one point, Tove left to fetch our food and I watched people outside walking past the cafe windows. I closed my eyes and thought about Oma in 1945, six years my junior and walking down the same streets, seeing the city through eyes that had seen things no eyes should see. I shuddered and opened mine to see a smiling Tove returning with our sandwiches. It was more than a comforting sight.

High up in the clouds, I'd already been impressed by the complimentary sandwich we received on our hour-long flight. The soft yet delightfully hearty bread was covered in a paprika cream-cheesey spread, much of which remained smeared on my fingertips, turning them a lovely shade of orange.

I was rubbing my fingers together, trying to clean them but instead creating a layer of sticky gray residue, when a smiling flight attendant strolled by and lowered a tray of steaming white hand towels in front of us. Surprise! sang Tove.

We eagerly snatched up the towels and then dropped them - aiii! - scalding hot killer towels! I poked at mine until it seemed a decent temperature, then rubbed my fingers clean with the happiness of someone taking a shower after a week of camping in the mountains. 

And on the eighth day, God created wet wash cloths to clean sticky fingers and make people on airplanes very, very happy.

 The smiling lady came back with a straw basket for us to drop our dirty towels into. I turned to Tove and shook my head in that way that says, Hey, I'm really impressed.

Hey, I'm really impressed, I said out loud. It's like a sushi restaurant... only it's an airplane. 

Sweden is impressive in the air and even better on land. It's a beautiful country brimming with two of my very favorite things: good bread and people on bikes.

I'll save bikes for another time. Let's talk about bread.

Well, first let's talk about cheese. French cheese is hands down the tastiest I've had (so rich! so sharp!), and I love the enormous variety of tastes and textures. But I won't say that French bread is the best of the best. The baguette has its time and place -- fresh from the boulangerie and snuggled under a slice of sharp Compté cheese -- but I do not believe it is the be-all, end-all of breads. My knight on a white horse arrives not with a baguette in hand, but with loaf that is rich in color and filled with crunchy nuts and seeds, or chewy dried fruit. Above all, it is impossible to roll my dream bread into a ball. Go ahead! Call me a bread snob - I've already accepted it.

And I've found my bread king up north. Swedish bread, or bröd, is chock-full of tasty stuff. Seeds and nuts, spices and seeds, nuts and spices, hurrah! In Malmö, we regaled ourselves with Tove's mother's home-made breads. One was cut into small squares and exploding with whole hazelnuts. Another, sweet and tangy with honey and caraway seeds, was cut so thin that I sucked down entire slices in a few bites.

Back in cheese country, I'm finding fine, seedy substitutes and remembering that above all, variety is how we appreciate different tastes and textures. While hearty bread is delicious in the morning, slices of fluffy brioche (light and slightly sweet) make for excellent tartines (toasted bread with sweet or savory toppings) and pain perdu (the French call French toast "lost bread." Million dollar question... why do we call it French toast?)

And the most delicious thing I've learned, confirmed with every bite, is that everything tastes better with friends.

Hug it out

Sure, so Europeans have great social welfare systems, but in America we have something better: hugs.

A hug, my god, a hug! The joy of wrapping your arms around a friend and giving a little squeeze that says, I'm glad to see you! or, I'll miss you! Equally satisfying to give and recieve, hugs are like body postcards.

You laugh, but for a tactile person, life in a culture of les bises (cheek kisses) is like an alcoholic in a dry city. Outta luck, buster.

Thank goodness for friends who accept, embrace, and practice hugs the American way: big.

Myriam and Benjamin lived in California for a year, where they got plenty of hugging experience. A few years later, they imparted their knowledge to Vincent. The hugging trio now rules the streets of Lyon.

Benj is a tall drink of water, so his hugs lift me solidly off the ground.


Myriam is my size exactly, so a hug from her fits like a silk glove.


Vincent delivers quality hugs with conviction and character, like a good handshake that leaves you speechless, wondering what you did to deserve such appreciation.

Last weekend, six of us (along with Anais, who is also French, and Wugui, who's Tawainese) descended upon Dijon, France -- home of wine (capital of Burgundy, after all), mustard, ginger bread, currant liqueor, and the Palais du Duc, where the numerous dukes of Burgundy lived. Yes indeed,  Dijon contains more mustard as far as the eye can see.

One morning in our hotel, I walked into the breakfast room to find Myriam already sitting with her cup of tea and book. Happy to see each other, we said bonjour with a giant bear hug, the kind where you rock back and forth, really letting the person know that a) you're glad you're friends, and b) you're glad people were created with arms, so that friends can hug.


Two women at the next table were eyeing us curiously. I checked the mirror to see that there were no strange growths on my face (nope). Then I realized that it was the hug that had provoked the inquisitive looks.

I motioned back and forth between Myriam and myself, to the hug that had just passed between us. "Un calin americain," I said. An American hug.


The two women nodded eagerly, like students wanting to show that the knowledge transmited has been sucessfully received. 


I chuckled.


And then something beautiful and unexpected happened. Both women stood up on their respective sides of the table, bent forward, and wrapped their arms around each other. The table between them meant that their derrieres stuck out at funny angles, causing them to smile and laugh the joyous laughs of people who've just discovered gold in the backyard. 


"Qu'est-ce que ca fait du bien!" one lady exclaimed. Well hey, that feels great!


Myriam and I smiled. Our work there was done.


In France, les bises (cheek kisses) rule the land. They are practical because they are no-questions-asked: see your best friend? Cheek kisses. See your ex? Cheek kisses. See your ex's mother? Cheek kisses. But more often than not, brushing cheeks with someone leaves me wanting more... arm involvement.


In Europe, the hug is considered as American as hamburgers. Pff, those Americans with their hamburgers and their hugs. 


Yeah, well, I've done les bises, and the hug wins hands-down.


hug: 1. French kiss: 0.