Dear Paris

Dear Paris,

It feels like you and I, we've never really managed to be a good match. But I wanted to say a few words. I was born in the 14th and spent my very first years in the 11th, "before it was cool", as my parents like to say. I don't remember much from these days, maybe a scene for la crèche or a view from our apartment rue Godefroy Cavaignac. We moved to Brittany before I knew how to read the names of the métro stations near us: Charonne, Bastille, République. But I was very proud to let my new friends know that I wasn't like them, me, I was a Parisian.

Even from afar, the city of light would cast an inescapable spell on me, and I was always excited to return. We used to travel on a small plane, and my ears would pop during take off, signifying we were on our way to a very special place. We would stay with family or friends, Belleville, Pigalle, exotic locales for kids used to growing up near the sea. Once, my brother got lost briefly when we were visiting a friends' apartment, he thought la cage d'escalier was just another room of the house, until it became really, really dark.

I have vivid memories of my parents taking us to the zoo du Jadin des plantes, to l'Ile Saint Louis to eat oeufs à la coque in old school brasseries, and to that uttermost Parisian attraction, Eurodisney. As a teen I was allowed to skip school to see my first big concert at Le Zenith, Alanis Morissette. I remember being constantly dazzled whenever I would spend a weekend or a holiday in Paris : going to the theatre with my godmother, recognizing famous faces in the streets of Saint Germain, admiring the Christmas lights on the Champs Elysées.

After I graduated from high school, I was ready for the big city! The usual journey from Brittany to Paris reversed, until I realized arriving at Gare de Montparnasse meant I was home. Slowly I learned to navigate the streets of Paris by myself. I loved walking after dark in the winter, when stores were still open and apartment windows shining bright, like a reassuring wink: you are not alone. I made friends for life ; went to see more concerts ; spent a lot of time at the Jardin du Luxembourg and Buttes Chaumont. But I left the city of light again, for the city of lights plural, Lyon, which felt really small and quiet at first. Eventually, I moved to the U.S. And as I had always planned all along, or so it seems, New York became my great love.

From there, I would go back to Paris every year as a tourist, slightly disoriented because everything felt familiar and foreign at the same time. After almost five years in New York, I had to go back to France. Paris was the obvious choice, Paris was home, right? Home is where the heart is, and many pieces of my heart are and will always be in Paris. But it didn't go so well. Maybe because for the first time in my life I wasn't uprooting myself for a new and exciting destination. Maybe because my experience in New York had been so intense, everything after that would pale in comparison. Maybe because Paris, I love you, but you bring me down.

I did give it a try. For almost three years I lived like a settler: make a home, grow your tribe, reclaim the surrounding territories. However, I wasn't willing to give up some of the rules that I had brought back with me from the New York jungle: smile big in the face of adversity (a.k.a when the waiters are rude) ; only drink coffee on the go ; and look for a new job keeping in mind the following mottos (alternate when needed): "when there is a will, there is a way" ; "yes we can!" ; "the most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time" ; "if you get an interview, apply lipstick".

Maybe, somehow I didn't want to become a "real" Parisian (whatever that means), and the Paris near me (the 11th, 10th, 9th) was becoming a mockup Brooklyn. We were both going through an identity crisis. There were lots of happy, fun moments with old and new friends. Joie de vivre, I don't know, but contentment and comfort, certainly. However it felt like I wasn't moving forward, no matter how much running around (literal and figurative) I did. I didn't give up though, but I started to complain, a lot. Seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle at night would barely make me smile.

So I left again at the end of this summer. It wasn't so hard because I can say "I'll always have Paris". Now that I am writing this from London, in retrospect it seems like such an obvious decision, even though I miss some things. I miss the people who have known me since before I could walk. I miss my friends and their kids who I have know since before they could walk. I miss my partners in crime ; my fruits and vegetables guys ; my baristas ; anyone and everyone who was there for me, my chers tous.

On November 13th, 2015 I was going back to France for the first time in a while. So it happens, I didn't even get a glimpse of Paris from the plane, I was going to a mountain town to celebrate a friend's birthday. I was so excited about our reunion that I forgot to bring candles for the cake, without knowing that, sadly, there would be many to be lighted in the upcoming days. People were killed, injured, traumatized in my old neighborhood, in the streets were I had been running, shopping, drinking, cooking, and smiling probably more than anywhere else in Paris. My New York friends contacted me even though they know I don't live there anymore, because they know. My London coworkers went silent for a minute, an hour before noon French time. I wasn't in Paris then, but I know things will never be the same. And until I go back, when people ask me where I'm from, I will say, as I always do, "I was born in Paris". No matter what, that will never change.

Rétrospective "Dear Paris" :
Paris, je t'aime (collective, 2006)

The Lucky Ones

 
Chers tous,

And dear Sandy, do you mind if I call you Sandy? After all, we're quite intimate now. 

D-1, Sunday. It all started quite anticlimactically. Or should I say anti-climate-ally? It was not love at first sight or, more appropriately in French, un coup de foudre! I knew you were coming, but I wasn't impressed. Your friend Irene had been quite a bust and I am a New Yorker now, I don't like to have my routine uprooted (by wind or otherwise). So the Sunday before your visit, I spent two hours rollerblading in Prospect Park with a friend. Living dangerously? Not really, it was open and full of locals, and I figured I could trust the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. The golden autumn leaves that they had systematically pushed to the side of the tracks were swirling in the invigorating wind. My surroundings were beautiful and quite peaceful. When we heard the subways were closing at 7 pm, that's when I really started to panic... Who wants to be stuck in Park Slope of all places ? : ) (If you don't believe me, you can read Amy Sohn's Prospect Park West and Motherland...)

D-Day, Monday. I spent the day safe and sound in my apartment in the East Village. Didn't set a foot outside. Complained out loud that the latest issue of New York Magazine hadn't been delivered by the mailman that day. Kept checking regularly on civilization, a.k.a the deli and the pub across the street, that were still open. Interacted in an almost non-confrontational way with my roommate about people walking their dogs outside in the bad weather ("New Yorkers and their pets, seriously!"). I set camp in my cosy room (I call it my kingdom). It was bright and warm, and connected to the outside world (Facebook! Skype! Netflix!) until 8.30 pm... when the power went out.

I was so ready. At my disposal I had one rose-scented candle from a fancy store in Paris, and one non-rose-scented candle, also a gift. I had saved a box of matches from the Meatball Factory—even thought I don't smoke—smart move! I had recently showered, and even washed my hair. The dishes were done. In the fridge, I had three bottles of beer and at least four liters of OJ leftover from a brunch I had hosted a few days before (oh, and yes, water). In my pantry, instant coffee, non-instant coffee, foie gras and crackers : ) A mink coat in case I got cold (long story). Anti-mosquito spray (why not?). My iPhone was fully charged. Contrary to when Irene hit, the laundromat across our building was closed so I didn't get a chance to do laundry that day. But five clean pairs of underwear should be more than enough, right? Most importantly, I had watched all two seasons of The Walking Dead on Netflix, so I had gathered a few tips on how to survive a blackout (with or without zombies hanging out in the woods). This is also a good time to mention how grateful I am to my parents who took us camping almost every summer with my brother when we were young.

I found my roommate frantic in his capharnaum of a room, holding a candle, looking for the flashlight I mentioned he should pull out five hours earlier. I decided to take charge and set up our new headquarters in the living-room. From the windows facing Second Avenue I could see that the rain and the wind were having a private party. The only source of light was from the police cars patrolling around my block to make sure no looting would happen. I couldn't even read a book because, although my roommate had lit a few more candles from his own stash, I am not Montesquieu. I usually don't feel like talking to my roommate... which maybe you can empathize with if I tell you that his stash of candles that I was just referring to dates back to when I got home after a long day at work and our apartment (but our apartment only!) had no power. He had "forgotten" to pay the electricity bill. For weeks and weeks, apparently. Con Edison restored our power after 12 hours and ever since then I had held a grudge. But this was going to be a long night, I had to talk to my roommate.

Other strange things happened:
-My iPhone was still working, magic, magic! 
-The New York Times had an online article that included the following quote: "The Oyster Creek Nuclear Power Station declared an alert, the second lowest on the four-step emergency scale established by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission". Reassuring, right?
-The New York Times also had an online article about "A fiery explosion at a 14th Street substation which left roughly 250,000 customers without power." So that's why!  
-Some ghostly figures were walking down the streets with flashlights. 
-We still had water—hot water even!—running and gas. So I made pasta for myself but ate in the same room as my roommate, which I never ever do.
-People I didn't expect to hear from texted me. My best friend didn't text me back. 
-I stayed up longer than I regularly do when I have so many more options to entertain myself. 

At 2 am my phone indicated "no service", something that usually only happens when you are in the subway, underground. I went to bed to the lullaby of the police sirens. I had a dream that the power had been restored. 

Day 2, Tuesday. I woke up early and checked my bedside lamp and cellphone. Nothing and nothing. I woke up again later and made some coffee without using the microwave (yes, don't judge)... My roommate had been outside, far enough (one block to be precise) to bring back some fresh news, batteries and two flashlights. Mine, decorated with a leopard print, was going to allow me to get out of our apartment into the pitch dark hallway without fear of breaking a leg or being attacked. We were making some progress here. The biggest update was that Mayor Bloomberg was scheduled to speak at 11 am. Unfortunately, I had thrown out my almost properly functioning battery-powered radio a long time ago, but our neighbors, who I had never spoken to before, invited us to gather around a vintage boombox from the 1980s. 

Their apartment was like Ali Baba's cave. Even in full daylight, you could barely see anything, piles and piles of... gold (just kidding, books) were blocking the view from Second Avenue. Our host, a self-proclaimed recovered hippie, introduced us to his daughter, and his tenant (?), an Asian woman who probably is in a more complicated visa-situation than me. The walls of their apartment and my apartment touch, but this felt like a parallel universe in which my roommate saved the day (with some batteries), and my neighbor kept calling him a genius. Weird, but friendly. Just like in a World War II movie, we sat around the radio, rapt. Bloomberg made his speech in English first, then to my surprise started to switch to Spanish (people of America, why don't learn the official language of your country?) ! Anyway, it was nice to hear from the outside world, basically, nothing to worry about on our end, at this point it was just the beginning of the waiting-game. Electricity fairy? Brothers Lumière? Flash Gordon? Power Rangers? When were you going to visit us again ? 

Now I wanted the outside world to hear from me, so this time I entered into a scene from a 1970s New York movie and made a call from a pay-phone. Luckily, there are still lots of them in the East Village (but much less drug addicts), so I didn't even have to venture very far (we were still not supposed to go outside). There was not even a line of people waiting, however, it took me a while to figure out how to connect with France (yes I know it's 33, but it's not that easy!). I think my Mom was more puzzled to get a call from an unknown U.S. number than to hear my voice! After that I felt invincible and ready to tackle this impossible task I had put on the back burner forever: go through my pile of unread Time Out New York magazines : ) My roommate was brave (or should I say foolish?) enough to go for a walk as the night was falling. He came back a long time after dark and I was never so happy to see him. Not because I was worried about him, but because, do you realize how boring it is to sit in the dark by yourself with nothing to do? After another candle-lit dinner with my roommate ("I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship"), I went to bed to the lullaby of the police sirens. I had a dream that the power had been restored.

Day 3, Wednesday. I woke up not so early and checked my bedside lamp and my cellphone. Nothing and nothing. I made some coffee without using the microwave... You know the drill. It was time for an adventure, or to put it less emphatically, to go out for a walk uptown! My roommate, you know, the genius, had thought of checking the Chrysler building on Monday night (you can see it from our windows when you bend). So we knew there was power at 42nd Street. And Mayor Bloomberg had confirmed that the dark zone extended from the tip of the island to 39th Street (we live near 4th).

The city was sunny! It was the most beautiful sight, and it was so nice to be able to stretch our legs. A few trees were blocking the sidewalks, but the real danger was crossing the streets with no green or red lights. The cars were driving slowly (relatively speaking for New York drivers) and had never been so courteous to us, pedestrians. As promised, at 40th Street exactly, civilization was waiting for us. Good old New York that never sleeps. People were gathered around power outlets like famished animals, which seemed really over the top because you could also get electricity onward north, at 41st, 42nd, 43rd, 44th Street... etc! Finally my phone was working and I could see who had been emailing me during Sandy... who my true friends were! (No pressure here.) The contact I had most emails from was... my gym: "We are still open". "We are planning on opening tomorrow and will keep you posted". Silence. "We are closed!". "We are still closed". "You are invited to visit our locations uptown at no extra cost!"

I also called a bunch of friends who live uptown because I was craving company, but nobody answered. Really? So I settled into a Wells Fargo bank where I could sit down in one of their puffy chairs and recharge my iPhone. A woman came to me: "Hi, do you need assistance? —Me: "No." —The Woman: "Are you a Wells Fargo customer?" —Me: "No." —The Woman: "OK!"... She probably had seen my invisible badge, the one that said "I live in the dark zone and you better be extra nice to me!" And I was wearing it proudly! Even though I really really really couldn't complain, Sandy had been nothing but a minor disturbance to my everyday life, stepping in this part of Manhattan where it was all like nothing had happened, made me bizarrely vindictive. The one email that really brushed me off was from my other roommate. She had been stranded somewhere outside of Sandy's path and was asking us "Do you have any sense of how soon things in the city will be getting back to normal?" Come on lady, why don't you read the newspaper! I felt like a Second Class passenger on the Titanic, interacting with the First Class people (especially, the Upper East and West siders) who had no clue what I was going through. 

Thankfully, one of my friend was there to prove me wrong. After we met for coffee on 83th Street, almost as far as I could walk (my gym was closed but I wasn't letting my guard down), and had dinner in Marseille (the restaurant), he decided it would be a fun thing to do to voluntarily cross the line at 40th Street with me and enter the other side of the force! So we hopped into a cab to meet some friends who had had the great idea of inviting us to try one of the candle-lit bars that were open in the East Village. The taxi ride in pitch dark downtown Manhattan was quite memorable I must say. The driver wanted to drop us off at 14th Street, which would have been fine on any regular day but with no traffic lights to monitor that major intersection, I corrected him with insistence: "Sir you're stopping on the South side of 14th Street, right? The South side!!!"... I was not going to cross one of the busiest street of the city with only my little leopard flashlight to rely on!

We found our party much more easily than I expected (quick reminder: we were back to no cell reception at all) and started to venture all together towards St Marks Place, following the lead of my friend's lamp: it was much brighter than mine and so heavy that it could double as a mace. Perfect! Some people were gathered around a generator, charging their phones. Some restaurants were attempting to serve food: "Our special tonight is pizza, we also have pizza, and how about some pizza?" Conclusion: you don't need electricity to use a firewood oven.

We settled at a bar that was packed with locals and ordered some really cold beer (probably the best use of the free dry ice that the authorities had been distributing around the neighborhood!). We debated the theory that in nine months there would be a baby boom. I debated the theory that there could also be a peak in divorce rates. After all, it was my married friends' idea to go out tonight! They were probably getting tired of their evenings en tête-à-tête... I know I couldn't stand to spend that much more time with my roommate, which is why I was so excited for the following day. I had been able to get in touch with my best friend and she had invited me to escape the city and spend some time in the suburbs at her parents' house, which had been miraculously untouched by Sandy (they have lots of trees out there, believe me). We walked home under the stars, we could actually see them for once! I went to bed to the lullaby of the police sirens. I had a dream that the power had been restored.

Day 4, Thursday. After a few unproductive hours at my apartment (spent, among other things, scraping the candle wax off of the plates we would probably have to use again before the electricity went back on), I was ready to leave the Second Class. With a spring in my step I made my way uptown once again. I called my friend as soon as I reached 40th Street and we agreed to meet when she would be done with work. Yes, some people had to work! One of my friends' boss was actually being so obnoxious about it that, even though there was still no subway service, he had run all the way from Brooklyn to Midtown Manhattan to prove to his employees that, really, they had no excuse to stay at home!  

I had a few hours to kill so, you guessed it right, I settled into another Wells Fargo bank! Then I went for an aimless walk which happened to bring me to the corner of the Upper East Side where Ladurée had opened a boutique. I swear it was a coincidence! I decided to buy a little selection for my friend and her family who were going to host me that night. Extraordinary weather conditions call for extraordinary sweet indulgences! I knew their macarons were shipped directly from Paris so I dared to ask the sales person how fresh these were, considering airports/ports had been shut down because of the superstorm. Immediately, a man with a French accent jumped in, exclaiming "These are stored at an extremely controlled temperature!". I was relieved to find out that climate change hadn't affected the distribution of luxury French goods in Manhattan...

Me and my friend took a packed train from Grand Central to the suburbs (for free!). Contrary to Manhattan post-Sandy, the city where her parents live wasn't divided into two zones, but into a multitude of pockets of lightness and darkness. So after we got picked up at the station, we proceeded to drive to their house with every other traffic light not working. I didn't even noticed at first, I was just so happy to be there. It felt like I had been finally spotted by the Titanic rescue team. I was one of the lucky ones... 

Retrospective "The Lucky Ones": 

Gone with the Wind (Victor Fleming, 1939)

Grease (Randal Kleiser, 1978)

Groundhog Day (Harold Ramis, 1993)

Twister (Jan de Bont, 1996)

Titanic (James Cameron, 1997)

Bring it On (Peyton Reed, 2000)

Cast Away (Robert Zemeckis, 2000)

Panic Room (David Fincher, 2002)

The Day After Tomorrow (Roland Emmerich, 2004)

127 Hours (Danny Boyle, 2010)

Starbucks and me

Chers tous,

L’autre jour j’ai commis une infidélité (mineure). Au lieu d’aller prendre mon café post-lunch au Starbucks en face de mon lieu de travail, j’ai voulu essayer un nouvel endroit plus éloigné, mais chaudement recommandé par ma bible, New York Magazine. Un café "à la Brooklyn", ouvert récemment par un couple de passionnés. D’habitude, je vais à ce Starbucks tous les jours où je travaille. Soit, si on fait le calcul (on enlève les weekends, congés, et jours fériés), plus de 200 fois par an ! Et bien, j’ai été déçue. Cela m’apprendra à faire un écart ! En effet, dans ce nouveau café, ils n’avaient pas de lait écrème, ni même de lait "normal" (en France appelé demi-écrémé, ici appelé 2%). Or pour moi le lait entier appartient à la même famille que la crème fraîche, le beurre, et les yaourts recette fermière, aliments qui me font horreur, sauf s’ils sont mélangés à plein d’autres ingrédients, et encore. Voilà pourquoi quand on me demande d’où je viens, je suis bien obligée de faire la distinction, « non je ne suis pas une vraie Bretonne… j’ai grandi en Bretagne ». Revenons-en à nos sirènes vertes ! Starbucks et moi c’est une « love/hate relationship »…

Notre première rencontre a eu lieu il y une dizaine d’année, à Seattle s’il vous plaît (ville où la chaîne est née, le café original est d’ailleurs toujours ouvert à Pike Place Market). Et aujourd’hui je vais chez Starbucks tous les jours de la semaine, mais JAMAIS le weekend, (sauf si je suis en quête de toilettes publics). Alors pourquoi est-ce que suis cette règle très particulière : semaine on/weekend off ?

La semaine, j’économise de l’argent en dégustant, la plupart du temps devant mon écran d’ordinateur (comme tous mes collègues, soupir), de délicieux déjeuners faits maison par mes soins. Ensuite je m’accorde un plaisir quotidien : je prends une pause air frais /coup de téléphone à mon Américain et je vais dépenser 2.50 dollars (seulement, 1.70 euros !!!) au Starbucks local où je commande un immuable « tall non-fat misto ». J’ai pris cette habitude parce que je sais que l’on prépare ma boisson à l’identique tous les jours. En conséquence, je n'ai jamais de mauvaises surprises, and I get a bang for my buck ! Ma commande est immanquablement à mon goût : 33 cl de réconfort caféiné, avec du lait écrémé donc, et bien chaud (je sais que je ne peux y tremper mes lèvres que 5-10 minutes après commande). Je ne prends pas de risques avec mon café parce que ce n’est pas qu’un café, justement ! C’est le boost in-dis-pen-sable de mon début d’après-midi, et la bouillote qui va réchauffer mon corps grelottant à cause de l’open-space climatisé à la limite de la torture (selon mon humble opinion). La semaine au bureau, j’ai besoin de structure, de repères, alors je biberonne mon misto pendant une petite heure, telle une enfant rassurée. Béate. D’ailleurs ce n’est sans doute pas un hasard si le logo de Starbucks, avant d’être réactualisé/censuré, était une sirène aux seins nus… il y a une côté allaitement régressif que les Américains ont adopté en masse avec leur café! La semaine, mon rituel ne passe pas inaperçu, quand je croise un de mes collègues dans les couloirs, il s’exclame systématiquement « Ah coffee time ! », et commente parfois sur ma ponctualité, « You’re kind of late today ». Car c’est ainsi, été comme hiver, vers 14-15h, les baristas de Starbucks m’accueillent comme une veille copine (et j’en ai vu du turnover parmi le staff !) Les anciens préparent automatiquement ma commande dès qu’ils me voient traverser la rue d’en face, et les nouveaux prennent vite le pli ! (J’exagère à peine : lorsqu'une fois je suis restée au téléphone et ai disparu de leur champ de vision, ils ont jeté mon misto avant de se rendre compte de leur erreur lorsque j’ai franchi la porte d’entrée du Starbucks pour de bon!) Je dois presque les mettre au courant si je pars en vacances en France, je ne voudrais pas qu’ils s’inquiètent ! Et by the way, à Paris aussi je consomme chez Starbucks.

C’est un comportement d’addict me direz-vous. Oui et non, car une fois la semaine au bureau terminée, je prends Starbucks en grippe et je n’y mettrais jamais au grand jamais les pieds ! En effet, le weekend sert à se déconnecter de la routine métro-boulot-dodo, à prendre du temps pour soi (un concept que les Américains ont du mal à intégrer parfois !). Pour moi cela signifie souvent explorer des recoins de New York que je connais moins bien, ou justement arpenter mes quartiers favoris. Le weekend mon emploi du temps n’est jamais réglé comme du papier à musique… je prends mon café où et quand ça me chante ! J’expérimente avec plaisir, quitte à être déçue. Mes cafés du weekend ne sont pas toujours aussi "parfaits" que mon tall non-fat misto quotidien, mais ils sont toujours surprenants : Café glacé ! Café aromatisé ! Café au lait bio ! Mocha ! Sélection commerce équitable ! Prix extravagant !

En fait, j’adore aller chez Starbucks la semaine et je déteste y aller le weekend pour les mêmes raisons qui font que l’enseigne verte divise les esprits. D’un côté, Starbucks se veut un lieu accueillant, familier, avec un décor cosy qui rappelle un petit café de quartier, et un staff qui se souvient de votre boisson préférée. De l’autre côté, Starbucks reste une chaîne qui peut s'assimiler facilement à du fast-food : certaines branches offrent de vous servir votre café en drive-in et, en dehors des grandes villes américaines (et européennes), Starbucks se trouve essentiellement sur les parkings des mini outdoor-malls de banlieue (pour vous donner une idée, c’est comme si vous alliez chez Starbucks entre une visite chez Darty et Buffalo Grill). 

Le paradoxe peut s’énoncer ainsi : Starbucks se vante d’être une chaîne à la fois omniprésente (à New York vous ne risquez pas de marcher plus de 10 minutes sans en trouver un), et "de qualité" (processus de sélection du café soi-disant artisanal, boisson customisée selon vos moindres désirs, le client n’est pas traité comme du bétail… on vous demande même votre petit nom !). Certains critiquent véhément la chaîne implantée absolument partout aux US, mais ils sont aussi probablement les premiers à se précipiter chez Starbucks à l’étranger, sinon impossible de trouver des lattes à leur goût ! La "comme à la maison" touch reste un atout majeur pour la chaîne. Combien de clients utilisent Starbucks comme une extension de leur salon, de leur nursery, ou de leur bureau ? On y vient pour se sentir entouré, pour se laisser bercer par la musique pointue mais néanmoins grand public, pour lire le New York Times à disposition, pour prendre le goûter des enfants sans complexes, ou, comme mon Américain, pour y travailler sur son ordinateur portable. Voilà aussi pourquoi Starbucks aura toujours une place à part à mes yeux... c’est là que nous nous sommes rencontrés !

D’autres bons souvenirs :

-Une de mes premières commandes dans un Starbucks de Seattle à l’âge de 16 ans : une boisson café-chocolat glacée (je ne me rappelle plus exactement de quoi il s’agissait). A l’époque j’étais capable de partir passer un été toute seule comme une grande aux États-Unis, mais je ne buvais pas encore de café pur !

-A Paris, avec mes amies anglophones et anglophiles… Le premier Starbucks s’apprête à ouvrir en France et, ne voulant surtout pas rater l’évènement, nous nous dirigeons gaiement à l’adresse indiquée sur internet, vers Opéra. Tout ce que nous découvrons sur les lieux ce sont les bureaux de la compagnie... encore un peu de patience les filles !

-Avec mon Américaine à Paris, lors de nos retrouvailles chez elle au milieu du Colorado. On fait une pause chez Starbucks et c’est comme si on était de nouveau dans le 6^e arrondissement !

-Au Starbucks ouvert 24h sur 24h en période de révisions (!) sur le campus de l’université américaine où je passe mon année à l’étranger. Avant que nous soyons engouffrées dans le rush du premier semestre, Alex me prend en photo avec une tasse de leur collection à la main (je collectionnais leurs mugs jusqu'à ce que mes déménagements répétés me forcent à les laisser chez mes parents).

-A Seattle, lors des premières vacances de Noël que je passe loin de la France. Ma "famille" américaine m’accueille complètement lessivée après une période brutale d’examens et de papers à rendre sans faute. Un latte réchauffant à la main, je suis assise à l’arrière de leur voiture géante, nous sommes en route vers la maison des grands-parents sous la neige. Le holiday spirit m’envahit… d’un coup !

-A Paris, avec toutes celles avec qui j’y ai dépensé de nombreux tickets restaurant, et passé de longues heures à parler de tout et de rien… Elles se reconnaitront : )

-A Paris, avant d’aller en cours, je me sens particulièrement cool avec mon café Starbucks à emporter à la main, mais n’ose pas l’amener dans la petite salle de classe !

-A Lyon, une de mes villes d’adoption qui a enfin ouvert un Starbucks !

- A New York avec mon Américain, le plus souvent possible. Parfois je fais exception et vais chez Starbucks même si c’est le weekend. Pour lui faire plaisir.

Rétrospective "Starbucks and me": 

In Good Company (Paul Weitz, 2004)

Waitress (Adrienne Shelly, 2007) 

Milk (Gus Van Sant, 2008)