Coffee

Paris is changing me.

It’s probably for the better, to be honest -- though I’m unsure whether or not I’m eating healthier overall, there is one culinary item on which I have cut back a lot: coffee.

At Tufts, I was known to drink three or more Hotung coffees per day, a habit which made me much less healthy and much more poor. I tried to kick the addiction a few times, but then finals week would roll around, and I’d be right back where I started: drinking coffee like water. Not good.

In France, there are two notable differences when it comes to coffee. First, the cups are much smaller than they are in the United States; second, they cost way, way less. Both, I think, are good changes for a coffee-addict like me to make. I can still drink 3 cups a day if I really want to (though I usually don’t), but in the end I’m ingesting less unhealthy stimulant and paying a fraction of what I would back home -- at its cheapest, a cup of coffee here costs 50 centimes -- half a Euro. Amazing! I am so enthusiastic about this system. Additionally, the coffee machines on campus are popular gathering places for students and professors alike, so you usually end up meeting someone cool on your pre-class coffee run.

I also don’t feel like I’m drinking less coffee. It must be psychological, because the small cups don’t seem to have an effect on how caffeinated I am. There’s no small satisfaction that comes from holding a cup of coffee, even a tiny one, and breathing in the aroma, as I’m sure the coffee-drinkers who read this column will agree. The satisfaction of knowing I only paid roughly $0.60 for each cup is greater still -- that fact alone is something that amazes me every time I hand over a couple of coins.

I know you probably don’t believe it’s possible for one tiny coffee to last me the whole afternoon. Well, here’s proof: The other day, I went into a Starbucks for the first time since moving here (I wanted to use the Wi-Fi, okay? Don’t judge me). Not wanting to be that annoying person who sits in the café without buying anything, I ordered my usual: a latte, grande size. And -- here’s the kicker -- it was too big. I could barely finish it, and throughout the entire process I was mad at myself for paying so much. My wallet and my belly hurt just from looking at it.

How was I ever able to drink multiple coffees like that every day? The idea is unthinkable now. I’m simply not cut out for the coffee-addict life any longer.

I told you Paris was changing me. My budget next semester will thank me for it, though I will miss my daily chats with the Hotung baristas.