*
I'm not going to look, because I know it will crush my dream (or, er, memory), but I have the weirdest fascination with Boursin cheese. I began eating it (of all places) in France, where I think it purports to be (and probably once was) from. I was there in the winter of 2006 visiting my then-girlfriend. I had a job interview in Manhattan the day I was due to leave (thanks for calling back, assholes!), after which I hopped a bus immediately to JFK. I'd never flown to Europe before. I'd never been on a plane this big before. I remember feeling really small. Really afraid.
My flight—an early Christmas present from my parents, God bless them—was set to depart late that night; something like 11pm, getting me into Paris-Charles de Gaulle early morning next day. I think this was when they first opened Terminal 5 (the Jet Blue terminal; I remember seeing signage everywhere), though my flight, an international direct, left from someplace else. I ended up arriving far too early at JFK—in the way that, when nervous, we tend to arrive at our destinations, often the things making us so nervous, way too early—and, naturally, began drinking. My girlfriend's mom, one of the only woman I've ever met whom I'd put right there next to my mom in a Sweetest Moms contest, gave me a few Xanax to take before the flight—something to "take the edge off," she probably said.
Being young and scared (and incredibly stupid), I took both (I think it was two) Xanax. I was sitting in whatever nameless bar was in my terminal at JFK, drinking what I remember being Budweiser. I ordered food. Let's say it was a burger. Eventually, probably as memory began to fade, I was joined at the bar by a fellow traveler; he was either coming from or going to New Orleans, and above all, he had a serious thing for tequila. Being young and scared and incredibly stupid (and now high as a kite), I "really love tequila too!" So it was tequila shots. A few of them. And then it was time.
I remember standing in line, waiting to board, emailing my girlfriend via text message (my iPhone snickers) "i lovey ou" and "sseeee youss oon!" and these sorts of things. I remember boarding the plane. I remember saying hello to the guy next to me; he was off to Paris to visit his son. I vaguely remember taking off, and then I remember waking up.
"Where are we?" I remember muttering.
"About to land," he said.
So I slept (is it at this point considered "sleeping"?) for the sum total of 8 hours—across an ocean, thousands of miles, and, finally, after some months of waiting, to Europe. I remember landing (my own brand of fatalism suggests that, after "getting away with" sleeping through the entire flight, one's proper reward would be a fiery death upon arrival), though not as well as I remember almost everything after that.
I remember breezing through security ("so this is Europe," I imagine myself saying). I remember identifying and retrieving my (father's) large black travel bag. I remember seeing my girlfriend for the first time in months—her eyes filled with tears. I remember boarding a train—she could have been taking me anywhere—bound for Paris. I remember all of these things.
More than any of them, though, I remember what happened next. Finally the train stopped; it was our stop. I followed whatever orders were given—head this way, don't forget your bag, up those stairs—until finally we reached street level. Walking out into a Parisian street—it must have been 9am local time—to the sites and sounds and smells of Europe—this is the thing I remember so vividly. The thing I'll never forget.
Both hungry, we stopped at the quaintest! French market. (I imagine my level of how quaint! was about equal to that of the first time traveler visiting one of New York City's how authentic! corner bodegas.) There I saw it! French cheese! It was incredible! I had never had cheese like this before! Indeed, America had never had cheese like this before (I was in Europe, after all). And I put in on everything—on breads and on salads and in soups. We ate it with breakfast and for a snack and after dinner.
After about 7 days of this I (for reasons now obvious) became violently ill. Something in the water, it must have been. Perhaps a strain of bacteria native only to Europe—something my body wasn't used to. Maybe it was all the wine; it could have been the wine. One thing's for sure, though: 1000 calories of this wonderful cheese each day couldn't be to blame. This is Europe, after all!
*
A few weeks later I was back in the States, living at home with my parents. I hadn't really much to do (upon my girlfriends return we were moving to New York City), but one thing I did do was the grocery shopping. (Looking back, this probably kept me sane. Anyhow...) So I'm in a Price Chopper or Hannaford's or whatever that building was at the time and I'm looking for some cheese. As luck would have it!, right there on the shelves, Boursin! Amazing that just weeks after my European vacation ended, Boursin had made its way to the US! (Or was there the whole time and I just never noticed it before. Either way.)
So that's the story. I really haven't stopped eating it since (though I have cut back from the 8 servings a day I was doing over there), though I have to admit their other variations (black pepper, roasted red pepper, etc.) are no match for the original. You know, real French cheese.
