The French table presents many challenges to the average American. The first is one of stamina. I will never forget my first twelve hour meal. Well, to be exact, it was two meals, but one ran right into the other. Lunch began at noon and the conversation carried us through dinner until midnight. At one point I broke the spell and went for a quick walk, but I was the only one—my poor glutes just couldn't take any more sitting in my wrought iron chair. 

Apart from such marathon feasts, your derrière better be ready to sit for a good three hours even for an ordinary weekend dinner. 

The second test is one of table manners. I've learned not to be ashamed when most of the small children at the table brandish their steak knives with more grace and agility than me. Or when my dinner companion asks why I keep switching my utensils from hand to hand when I need to cut something. Or when someone points out that, technically, it's rude to cut salad. (Why am I the only one left with salad dressing on my chin when shoveling a lettuce leaf the size of a quilt into my mouth?) But, the third, and most important, is the challenge of the food itself. 

We simply haven't been introduced to many foods that commonly feature on a typical French menu. Of course, this is changing as the foodie-culture continues to rise in the States. These days you can find whole restaurants dedicated to using all parts of the pig and hear tales of Manhattan investment bankers retiring at thirty to become artisanal cheese makers in Vermont. But, still, in many cases, French food has the power to shock Americans. Or, if not shock us, at least shut us and our taste buds up with trepidation, and the French get a huge kick out of this. They like putting your Francophilia to the test: "Oh, you like our wine and our literature, but what do you think about our headcheese?"

Over the years I have worked out that there are certain levels in the quest to full French acceptance in this regard:
Level One: Things Found in the Forest or Pond
Level Two: Mold
Level Three: Parts Cruelly Prepared 
Level Four: Viscera
Level Five (The Ultimate Test): The Animal's Periphery, aka Face and Feet

In general, French people love to discuss food, and when they dine with an American it's a great chance for them to relive some of their favorite dishes, while simultaneously freaking out their guest, so this is a familiar conversation: 

Host: "Have you tried frog legs? How about escargot?" (Level One)

Guest: "Sure! It's easy to love anything bathed in garlic, butter and herbs." 

Host: "I'm glad to hear you're not like most Americans. Here, try this nice Pont L'Eveque." (Level Two) And, you are presented with the source of the stench that's been knocking you over for the past three hours, the king of stinky cheese, which has been ripening at room temperature on the counter. 
 
Guest: "Why thank you, that's delicious." They're annoyed when you don't protest.

Host: "And foie gras? We've heard that some American cities have banned this delicacy!" (Level Three)

Guest: "Actually, I think that ban's been lifted." Now, they're truly disappointed.

Host: "What about blood sausage? Andouillette? Tripe? Kidneys?" At this point, they're trying anything to stump you, but when you've finally passed Level Four, you may be the proud recipient of a French nod-frown of "not bad". 

But, I'm ashamed to admit, I flunked Level 5 completely. 

Over the years a friend from Lyon, which some French people consider to be the culinary capital of the country, had heard me repeatedly profess my love for various scary French foods and seen me flaunt my hearty appetite, and I'm convinced she decided to test my mettle once and for all. So, one evening she invited us for a simple, light dinner outside on one of those mild summer nights when twilight hits late and lasts long. 

When the aperitif began, I should have recognized the bad omen lurking in the lawn. A black cat hovered over a patch in the grass, unmoving for what seemed like an hour. Finally, he pounced in a frenzied, brief attack. In the alien blue of the evening it was difficult to see what he had succeeded in capturing, so the guests took a stroll over, champagne flutes in hand, to discover the cat batting around the detached head of a gopher. We watched the grisly game, fascinated. 

At the same time, our hostess was laying out the repast: fresh bread, a bottle of cellar-cooled red, and two large salads, one of museau, the other of pied de cochon, which in French sound beautiful, but when translated are immediately stripped of their appeal: snout salad and pig foot salad. 

In concept, I didn't object. Our hostess is an amazing cook, and I knew she was serving the best, and indeed, the other diners tucked in and sang the salads' delicious praises. 

The first forkful of cartilage did me in. Usually I have no problem with texture. Chewy, slimy, gooey, mushy? No problem. But I had the distinct impression that I was affectionately nibbling on a cold pig's ear. It was too much. Of course, I kept my proud mouth shut and hoped my uneaten salads were somewhat hidden in the shadows. 

Did I imagine a mischievous crinkle at the corner of my friend's mouth when she offered me seconds? Perhaps we both knew that I had been vanquished, that I hadn't passed Level Five. 

The cat was still busy with his savage playtime in the lawn. The guests at the table elegantly chewed their thin pink squares of museau and pied. I tore off a chunk of baguette, took a big swig of Burgundy and promised myself to do better the next time I'm presented with a gourmet foot on my plate. 

I.  

Just beyond Customs, a woman, one half of a sleepy couple who look like they just rolled out of bed and tumbled, still murmuring, to the airport, holds a sign with my name on it. In the car I think, they could be serial killers and I have fallen for an elaborate ruse, but as we drive further into the city, she grows kind and starts to point out landmarks and discuss the program and my living arrangements while I'm here: two other students will share the apartment; she personally has stocked our kitchen; call if we need anything. 

The city stretches out along the sea like an ancient, beautiful statue turned on its side, its face open to the sun. "Did you know that Christopher Columbus was from Catalonia?" she asks as we circle around a priapic tower with a figure of Columbus at the top. Past the port we continue up La Rambla, a main artery clogged with tourists and bursting with colorful markets and noisy cafes. Finally, we plunge into the Gothic Quarter where light is choked off by old buildings, which are connected by raggy ropes of laundry drying overhead.

At first glance the neighborhood looks like an American's realized fantasy of Old World Europe with cobblestone paths, gas lamps closed in foggy glass and cool, gray-faced buildings. Snaky streets dart this way and that and then open onto squares and courtyards with gushing fountains. 

Our apartment sits on a street so narrow you feel like you could stand in the middle and touch the buildings on either side. At the top of the interior stone stairway, a tiny window in the ceiling lets in a drop of sun; otherwise the space is dark. The man, still rumpled and withdrawn, drags my suitcase up three flights.

Key in the lock: "Home." The door opens and a pillow of musty air hits me in the face. 

My roommates have already arrived and are sleeping off jet leg behind closed doors. I put away my things in the last small room with a thin mattress and a sliver of a window. I look outside and feel a stunned ache at the novelty of this home. The cold tile floor seems coated with three hundred years of dirt, a grime impossible to clean with normal soap. One would have to scrape it tile by tile, on their knees, with a putty knife to make any progress. And, yet still it would not have a distinct color. The entire place seems to have a dusty veil thrown over it. 

After unpacking my deep suitcase I go investigate the kitchen and find that the overhead light doesn't work. The apartment is so dark it feels like a cave I've tunneled my way into, like I'd opened a manhole cover on La Rambla and shimmied underground to find this place. 

Opening the fridge I am unimpressed. Yogurt, milk and a jar of tomato sauce are the only contents. In the pantry: boxes of dry pasta and muesli. I want to wait to meet my roommates before venturing out and don't feel like cooking, so I shake some muesli into a big bowl in the dark kitchen, pull up a chair to the formica table and take a bite. 

It tastes fuzzy. It tastes green. 

In the shadowy kitchen it looks fine, but clearly something isn't right. I take the bowl into my room and hold it under a dim lamp. The oats are suspended in a soft white mold. I run back to wash out my mouth and just then, one of the bedroom doors opens. 

My roommate looks like a bright sunflower against the apartment's gray walls. 

"Hi. I'm Emily."

"Hi. I just ate mold." 

II.  

We cross La Ramba on our way to the subway station. The streets are clean and Barcelona's populace looks dazzling and regal, like the descendants of bejeweled Renaissance royalty. Businessmen in suits stand at cafés reading the morning's news over tiny cups of strong coffee, and women walk with purpose in tall heels, swinging shiny leather briefcases. 

In white sneakers and big backpacks slung over our shoulders we are from another world; we are the descendants of scrappy Puritans. 

In the subway station the crowd grows thick and loud, and we hurry with the throng down the steps, rushing toward the platform where the train, already packed with people, waits. A warning from the conductor. Quick. People push behind us, and I thrust my arm between the subway car's closing doors with enough momentum that my backpack slips off my shoulder, down my arm and into the car. The doors don't bounce open. 

I'm able to jerk my arm out of the closed doors, but my backpack is caught inside and I grip it by the one strap that is sticking out of the jaws of the train.

Through the windows of the car, passengers look at me with blank eyes, motionless. The train starts to move. 

Emily grabs the strap too and we jog along the track with the moving train, shrieking, pulling as hard as we can. We make it halfway down the platform when the conductor finally concedes defeat to the American terriers in this fierce tug-of-war, stops the train and opens its doors. 

We stumble back onto the platform with the backpack containing my passport and my laptop and my life. The commuters still watch like bored, impassive ghosts. 

We wait for the next train. 

III. 

Young, we feel bullied by the strange circumstances presented, again and again, by the city and the selves we have discovered within it. 

The romance of the Gothic Quarter has been whittled down, day after day, until I am left only with grotesque splinters of images: at night the gas lamps illuminate endless piles of cat shit; a man flashes a knife at a girl on her walk home down the cobblestone; drunks in ever-gray doorways piss and leer. 

On the last day I am burning up with fever. I've been kept out late for long midnight dinners and awoken, always too early, to learn. I've been stuffed with tapas and saturated with sangria. Now I yearn to eat something not bathed in olive oil, something not caught from the sea, something not served out of terracotta. 

I would like a tasteless microwaved dinner before going to bed at a reasonable hour in a high-ceilinged suburban room, frozen with conditioned air. 

One night like that would give me strength for the continuing journey. 

We trudge down the street to pack our rental car. No one is here to drag our suitcases for us or tell us what to do. We are our own navigators, and so we've readied ourselves with maps and guidebooks, one of which explains that only Catalonians believe that Columbus was Catalonian. 

We will drive north along the Mediterranean with everything belonging to us within this small car. 

But first, we want America in our mouths. 

To spite the city and to try to capture a taste of a faraway, and therefore mythic, home, we walk to the ubiquitous, unofficial embassy for all longing Americans. But, this McDonald's does not look familiar. My fever and the crush of people make it feel like a wavering, chaotic dream. I slump in the long line. 

Though it's the middle of the day, all the customers look like the nighttime demons of the Gothic Quarter come to life. Next to us, a man, whose face is covered with wounds, some stitched, some fresh, inches closer and closer to us until we shrink, guiltily, away from him. He sees our repulsion and smiles, showing yellow teeth, and puts a hand on my shoulder and then slides it slowly down my arm. The gesture begins as reassurance and ends as an insult.

We fight our instinct to run, and we wait for our warm paper bags and cold waxy cups and take a last walk down La Rambla to the packed car. Though not hungry, I eat my fries through my fever and taste tears in my throat. 

Emily looks over at me, her roommate turned inside out by the city, and drives. 

You approach the café with trepidation. 

You've heard the rumors about French servers' dislike for tourists, and just as you feared, you see that your server, dressed sharply in a black uniform, has a scowl as tight as her crisp bow tie. She passes directly in front of you with deeply glazed eyes, ignoring you. In your cloak of invisibility you sit down and hide your Paris guidebook in your bag and take out your cellphone even though you have no reception. 

Finally, your thirst overtakes your shyness and you crane your neck around, smiling broadly, trying to make eye contact with her as she laughs with her colleague by the bar. She accidentally catches your eye and moves slowly to your table, her smile vanished. 

You are determined to win her over, so you work up your best French (first mentally rehearsing your guttural r's) and correctly order un grand crème avec un verre d'eau, s'il vous plait. She looks like she's in pain, and indeed, you've just assaulted her ears with your accent. When she comes back she says in English, "Here you are. A large coffee with milk and a glass of water." 

You try another tactic: "What a beautiful day!" Maybe she wants to practice her flawless English with you? Her frown puckers tartly and she turns on her heel to the next table, which is packed with Australian backpackers. 

"Hello!" They greet her and ask if she speaks English. "Non, je ne parles pas anglais," she responds, so they give their long order by pointing out things on the menu and wildly miming. 

You feel relieved. It's not just you. 

And, in fact, I've learned, it's not just tourists. Even Parisians get the same cold treatment initially, but the difference is, they know the ritual of how to soften even the most taciturn of servers. 

The proper way to order at a café has been explained to me by a Frenchman: 

• Initial eye contact should be brief. A lingering stare could be interpreted as a demand. 
• Smile, but not too much. You are amiable, not overzealous. 
  
• You're a guest at their establishment. Would you ask a hostess for something without creating the proper rapport? 
• Go about your business until they decide to approach you. 
  
• You will then give your order as if you were making the biggest imposition imaginable. Your wording should demonstrate deference, honor and respect. 
• If you've performed the ritual correctly, you will notice their icy exterior melting. The painful expression might transform into a smile, and by the time you leave, they might be chuckling at your joke and lightly touching your shoulder in appreciation for your good customer-hood.

This was enlightening, but intimidating. 

I said, "That's quite complicated, I don't know if I'll ever pick up the nuances."

"Oh no," he assured me, "there's no way an American could ever get it right." 

The world knows that something magical happens in a French kitchen, where years of tradition converge with highly cultivated appetites, a stage set for culinary excellence. And, indeed, a dinner party in France, from its creation to its consumption, resembles a dance. Each person knows her part, whether she is the prima ballerina (the hostess) or part of the corps (the diners). The dinner has been choreographed and honed over centuries, and those ancient moves spool in their very DNA. 

First, there is the aperitif, or "apero" to whet the appetite for both the meal and conversation to come. Talk is light, the champagne bubbly. The smallest nibbles are served. Just a drop of tapenade on the slimmest cracker, a tiny dish of oily black olives, a few buttery gougères. There's no need to rush or overdo the prelude. 

Eventually the group senses when it's time to move to the heart of the matter, and the guests fold their cocktail napkins and make their way to another table, set beautifully and flickering with candlelight. Dishes are produced without the slightest evidence of effort. They seem to appear out of nowhere. Platters are passed, portions served gracefully. A salad is tossed at the table. Gentlemen pour the wine to a discreet level, and it is sipped by knowing lips. 

Attention is paid to the food, but not too much. The company and conversation are the focus, the food the music that enlivens the whole dance. 

Courses are moved through slowly and talk might grow more heated. Weather, children, and vacations have been discussed, so now politics may be introduced, if the guests are willing. By the cheese course tempers have died down, and now full concentration can be paid to the food, like discussing the music after a performance. Dessert is artfully arranged: a basket of ripe fruit and a simple tart, shiny as cleaned glass. A sliveriest of slivers is requested. The diners have dined lustily, but not outrageously. They sip tiny cups of coffee and perhaps thimblefuls of a special digestif. The long meal winds down. Everyone has played their part beautifully. 

As an American lover of food, I am in awe, an appreciative member of the audience, but one who feels deeply awkward on stage herself, as a cook and as a diner; I like to think that my enthusiasm helps compensate for my awkwardness. Although I don't have centuries of culinary tradition on which to stand, I do have good cookbooks, which is how I learned to cook. Years ago I read fat cooking bibles, like the Gourmet Cookbook and How to Cook Everything, cover to cover. Shelf after shelf, I devoured even introductions and silly chapters that explain all the utensils you need and why, which is probably how I ended up acquiring three different lemon-squeezing contraptions. 

But, no matter how much I've read and how much I've cooked, I have yet to produce a meal that is as effortless, or at least as effortless-looking as that of a French cook. The strain can be felt even in the meal-planning stage. Several cookbooks are consulted, notes taken, lists made. A meal as elaborate as Thanksgiving requires its own Excel spreadsheet. If I don't follow the recipe exactly then perhaps the magic of the dish will be missed by one little teaspoon of turmeric. Who knows? (To be honest, things have gotten better over the years as I've gained kitchen confidence, but for formal occasions, I can't take any risks.)

I've had the pleasure to dine at enough French tables to know the general choreography, but there's always something that feels a bit off when I'm the one throwing the dinner party. 

The cooking has begun. Everything that could be prepared ahead of time has been prepared. Now dishes roast and steam and bubble at the last minute for maximum flavor and appropriate heat. I have everything perfectly under control. 

And then a guest wanders into the kitchen. "How's it going in here? Let me help."

What? My concentration is broken, the rhythm's now off. I feel guilty turning him away, but don't want to charge him with any major task. Chef Control Freak is at the helm. 

"Oh, good. You could stir the sauce." That seems harmless enough. 

I try not to let my mouth display my inner snarl as he adjusts the heat on the burner. 

The aperitif is served while I am still cooking. I bolt out to sip some champagne and smile at the conversation and then sprint back to the kitchen to slam pots around. The hors d'oeuvres are good, too good and too plentiful. With my overflowing baskets and platters, I am unintentionally murdering my guests' appetites. They follow protocol, eating what they are served. The saucisson is cut into huge chunks rather than slivers. Thick slices of toasted bread, rubbed with garlic, are being dabbed in olive oil. I can't stop it. It's too late. 

Meanwhile, glasses are being topped off with abandon. Martinis, as well as champagne, have been offered, and so not only are my guests getting full, they are getting drunk. Polite conversation is already veering into dangerous territory. While slathering a radish with salted butter, one guest brings up socialism. Things are going downhill fast. 

The appetizer was anything but a tease, and I can see that the guests would be happier continuing to drink and munch just as they are, but the gargantuan main course must be served. I toss the salad at the table and leaves of dressed lettuce fly out of the bowl onto the tablecloth. 

Because my guests are sensitive, they can clearly see that toil has gone into this meal, not least because of its sheer volume. I can feed the entire block with just the mashed potatoes. And, so instead of being the elegant background music to the conversation, the feast becomes the centerpiece. The diners can't help but notice my expectant face, which wants to shout, "HOW DOES IT TASTE!?" So they deliver positive, drunken feedback, and I can relax a little, until one guest says, "Oh, how interesting to serve green beans at this time of year." Goddamn those out-of-season green beans! 

I don't offer three selections of cheese, I offer nine. The guests do their best considering their dampened appetites, but some look stricken as I announce dessert, which is done to the same extravagant, Jupiterian level as the rest of the meal. Instead of one simple tart, there's a tart, a cake, and a pie. And ice cream if you prefer. Oh, and also some warm cookies. They are overcome by choice. It's like a European, who is used to shopping at a tiny local greengrocer, is now standing immobilized in Walmart. One guest demurs and sits silently in a digestive stupor. Another, tipsily game, takes a slice of everything, and I ignore the conversation to hear what he has to say about the cheesecake. 

Clearly this is a meal cooked by someone whose favorite dish growing up was something called the big-as-yo-face burrito. At the end of the meal, which lacked finesse and balance, and was somewhat out of season, I look around, and to my surprise everyone seems happy and satisfied. It was over-the-top, zany even. So, maybe my dance de cuisine is not the graceful movement that I aspire to; perhaps it's more like a circus, loud, overwhelming and hopefully entertaining.

I am scared of driving, flying, go-carting, jet-skiing, really anything that involves wheels or a motor or propulsion of any kind. So, to compensate, I am a rude walker. It's been my main mode of transport for a long time now, and I'm good at it. I walk fast and follow all the rules. I'm so confident in my pedestrian know-how that I'm secretly okay with jaywalkers getting tickets. I am that person on a completely empty road, waiting patiently for the walk light to flash green. 

You see, I want to earn my self-righteousness on the road. That way, I feel no guilt when a wall of teenagers on cell phones comes at me expecting the sea to part, and I bump into them. I just smirk at their bad pedestrian-hood. Happy holiday tourists smiling at window displays? I blow past them, mere inches away. Even if they can't see my dirty look, it's there. With cars, I'm just as rude. As soon as that light changes, the crosswalk better be as clear as a southern summer sky. If the driver is impatient and starts rolling past that line, I look her right in the eye with a telepathic message: I have an umbrella and I'm not afraid to use it. 

My first day in London I walk to the grocery store around the corner from my flat. Having a new city to walk in is like getting a brand new car, but better. I whistle a happy tune until I get to the crosswalk and realize that there is NO CROSSWALK. On the pavement just a message in white: "Look right". Well, what good is that going to do me if the cars coming from the right never stop? The traffic lights  are just out of sight, and the pedestrians are looking left, looking right, their eyes wide. The light finally changes and the oncoming cars stop. We stick a toe into the road and more cars careen around the corner without pausing like we're a flock of sad city pigeons who get whatever they deserve. 

I'm still optimistic. Maybe it's just that one busy intersection. I try a quiet side street near a school. Halfway across and a taxi comes hurtling from out of nowhere. I keep walking and he shakes his fist at me. Nowhere do I see a stop sign. No stick figures flashing in helpful green and red. I walk toward a bus stop and see a gigantic poster with a face taking up the whole frame. His eyes stare out, a dead blank. His earbuds dangle grotesquely: "He changed the track and didn't see the car coming." What dystopia is this! 

I'm losing hope, but then I spot a big flashing yellow bulb next to what looks like a crosswalk. Could it be? It's a busy avenue and cars are speeding through it, but then a miraculous thing happens. As I begin to approach, a car slows down. It stops. After a day of walking around I don't know if this is a dirty trick. Maybe he'll plow me down as soon as I reach the center. But no, I cross unmolested. I can't help it, I smile and give a low wave. Pathetic. 

One day in London and my pedestrian hauteur has shriveled into a sad gratitude at cars who don't run me over. 

Since that first day I've learned a few tricks. The sacred cross walks with the yellow lights are called zebra crossings, and almost without fail, drivers will stop for pedestrians who are even close to crossing. Everywhere else you're fair game. You can make eye contact, smile, have a stroller and several teetering bags of groceries, cars won't stop. There is no alpha-pedestrian in London, only us pigeons, ready to scatter. So this is the formula that I recommend. Wait patiently until the light turns red to oncoming traffic. Let the turning cars pass as slowly as they like. If there is a car that could reach you in the next minute, make eye contact, acknowledge the driver's dominance with a look of abject fear and then run for your life. And learn to drive.