Humans are conditioned by routine and repetition. As children, we request to hear the same bedtime story to rock us to sleep, we take our assigned seats in school, we doodle in our notebooks with our favorite pens and pencils, and we sleep on the same side of our beds with our cherished stuffed animals until these routines evolve into new habits. This familiarity comforts us when we fumble and uplifts us during moments of loneliness and lostness. The inherent need for routine carries on into adulthood and allows us to adapt to new environments.
As we get older, move out of our parent’s house and start traveling the world, whether by choice or obligation, we naturally look for familiar markers – places, sounds, shops, feelings – that allow us to regain the bearings we had as children. This seems particularly true in the case of travelers. Traveling through major cities of Western Europe, for example, is not much of a departure from traveling to most American cities – chain restaurants and recognizable clothing stores line the boulevards, English is usually spoken in some capacity and H&M shops make for visible landmarks on every corner. While it is still possible to feel culture shock, the effect is much different than, say, traveling to India or Japan where familiar comforts are fewer and farther between. For many American expats and travelers, these comforts often manifest themselves as food.
I don’t believe I ever mentioned it before, but I worked for Starbucks for two years while I was still living in the States. For two whole years, my pores were imbued with the odor (and it does eventually become an unwanted odor) of coffee grounds and mass-produced pastries. You could smell me coming from a mile away and my clothes, despite multiple spins in the laundry, permanently reeked of the inside of a coffee pot. At this point you might be asking yourself, why is this such a bad thing? As is true with most pleasures in life, the novelty of that deep coffee smell wears off in addition to its taste. When I left the States, I left behind that odor and swapped it for the ever-so-tempting, rich perfume of French butter.
When I first moved to Paris, Starbucks’ presence was a disturbance. How dare they invade a city with such a rich, longstanding café culture? I thought. I wanted to avoid seeing familiar faces, and that included the face of all American chains. What a foolhardy expectation. Over time, through bureaucratic headaches and with the realization that acrid French coffee wouldn’t be on my list of little pleasures, I began to look at the existence of Starbucks (and growing ubiquitousness) as a friendly positive – especially on days when I desperately needed a taste of home. But with a price tag that surpasses that of all other European Starbucks, it isn’t a luxury I allow myself often.
As much as I’m overjoyed to have removed all traces of Starbucks products from my skin and nostrils and replaced assembly line coffee cake with a fresh brioche from the corner bakery, a part of me is glad that it’s here. A familiar place that upholds the consoling memory of the life I used to live, in a city I don’t ever want to forget.
{Photo 2 courtesy of Vanz}
{More about Starbucks in France}
