OVERSEAS BRIEFING

Author: NIRVANA BHATIA

PARIS - A man actually smiled at me out of his own volition this morning on the train, a sign that spring has finally arrived here in Paris, and the women have switched from their cashmere-lined fur coats into their long merino-wool pea coats. What else but spring fever could explain these most rare of sights in the French species? Even now, I am sitting on the steps of the Eglise Madeleine, with the brilliant sun shining through the haze of grey-blue skies, watching the Parisians march towards Place de la Concorde. But while you may be dreaming of romance under the Eiffel Tower or aimless strolls along the sun-splattered Seine, I have a much more urgent matter to ponder: which country shall I visit for lunch?

Before you attempt to explain to me that it is not yet possible to travel through space, I must clarify that I grew up all over Asia. My attempts at mixing together white rice, those smashed rocks they call falafel and chili sauce in a fading Chinese print noodle bowl in Ross never once have mimicked the meals I crave. Here in Paris, however, it's a different story. You might as well start spinning your globe to help you make a decision as to which region's splendors you should take advantage of today. Your choices range from (what my friends and I have nicknamed somewhat politically incorrectly): Chinatown, Indoland (both North and South), Arabworld, Jewish Quarter, Africa! and Japanese Empire. We have yet to think of something for the yummy Laotian place!

Oh, and if you may so desire, finding some of those baguette sandwiches brimming with melted cheese or a box of lavender macaroons or a bowl of steaming hot onion soup, those aren't that hard to find either. In fact, there's even a nearly hidden door in the 17th arrondissement that leads to an elegant shop selling products for espresso machines, and it entertains its customers with free drinks. Basically, it's a free Starbucks with unbelievably comfy leather chairs and travel photo books to flip through. These are my special places, where the heritage of food and culture come together to create a magical experience that reminds me of my many homes.

While the steaming bowls of Vietnamese rice noodles garnished with basil, bean sprouts, limes and chilies, plates and plates of Lebanese appetizers and South Indian dosas are the center of the meal, for me, the enticement comes in forgetting that I am in Paris for a few moments and discovering an entirely different culture. Nobody shouts louder or faster than the Arab fruit sellers in Chinatown; only in Indoland do I hear strains of my beloved Bollywood pop songs belting out from each store; and it is only in the Jewish Quarter, amidst the traditionally dressed men, that I feel a sense of calm in this overwhelming city. My favorite part is witnessing the faint glimmer of recognition in their eyes and the tiny startle in their neck as I attempt to communicate with the inhabitants of each neighborhood in their native tongues. These French-influenced immigrants are too refined to make a verbal comment on your knowledge of their language, but even if I only know a few basic words of their language, or can even just pronounce the names on the menu correctly, each individual suddenly warms up, freely sharing a multitude of those extraordinary smiles so rare here in Paris. It is a beautiful day here today though, so maybe I shall just visit the market around the corner, where the Moroccan man will hand me a mango reminiscent of those I eat every day in my summers in India, and return here to watch the entire world pass right before me.