Memory I: Taste

Raspberries will always taste of Paris. The burst of that intense tartness on my tongue, undercut with a hint of something floral, brings me back to the summer of 2004, when I spent five weeks exploring the city and studying French at the Institut Catholique de Paris.

I shared a small room with another student at the Maison des Mines, the dormitory for the engineering, technical and social science school Ecole des Mines. There were two beds, a long desk against the windows, and a small kitchenette comprised of a sink, mini-fridge and cupboard. Carrie and I mostly bought our own food, but each week we split a large carton of yogurt mixed with fruit. Strawberry yogurt I'd had before, and peaches and bananas, but it was my first encounter with raspberries. I would later enjoy them in jams or coated lightly with powdered sugar atop desserts, but there was something more vivid about the taste of that yogurt in my humble dorm room in the Latin Quarter, a slice of la vie boheme. (Or as close as to the bohemian artist's garret as I was going to get.)

That summer was filled other flavors, too: of juicy doner kebab pitas and dark chocolate tinged with orange, of dark-red wines and late-night runs for crepes and Orangina juice. I ate cheese of all types, chocolate-studded pain Viennois, the offerings of the local student cafeteria Resto U. But none of these evokes Paris so much as the nubbly texture and tart sweetness of raspberries.