If there’s one thing I can say I fully agree with in French culture, it has to be their champagne consumption practices. I remember back when I lived in the Midwest, I could count the number of times in my life I had had champagne. I think once. I think.
In the states my idea of “bubbly” was never more exotic than Schweppes, but here they pull out the cork at the drop of a hat. It’s gotten to the point where champagne is losing its bubbly excitement. I got a parking space, POP! I really enjoy this gum, POP POP POP!
Take the last month for example. I had several friends turn thirty, a few colleagues change jobs, Thanksgiving with the Frenchies, a big win at work, and a housewarming party.
Needless to say, I’ve been stinking drunk for weeks.
If I go out again and someone fails to immediately pour a magnum of Mum’s down my throat, I think I might actually be insulted. (No pressure everybody … no pressure at all.)
See this is another reason why I can’t see myself moving back any time soon. Here, bottles grow on trees and flutes pop out of the earth like dandelions. Could I really go back to beer and brats when I’ve grown accustomed to Champ and foie gras? Ok, I could definitely go back to it.
But I’m not going to.