The Baklava That Never Was

Recently, my two younger children have been learning les cinq sens—the five senses. The school has organized all sorts of activities on the subject, including bringing in a professional theatre troupe dedicated to the five senses and offering a special five senses lunch.

Since France’s main minority culture is Arab, there was even a class fieldtrip to the Institut du Monde Arabe for a special atélier entitled les cinqs sens du monde Arabe. Naturally, I chaperoned. (Incidentally, while chaperone is a French word, the French actually use the term accompagnatrice when referring to what we would call a chaperone).

On the morning of the fieldtrip, I didn’t have time to eat breakfast. Not to worry, I thought, I’m going to a five senses atélier. Taste is a sense. Ergo, I’ll be able to get something to eat there. Ooh, I hope it’s a little square of baklava, my favorite Arab dessert.

It was a cold, windy and rainy day, which does not distinguish it from any other day in Paris. Getting to the institute with 25 four-year-olds was a challenge and we almost lost some on the Metro, but we finally made it there, all in one proverbial piece.

Separated from the lobby of the institute is a small café, which at 10 a.m. was already full of tourists stuffing almond pastries and mint tea into their cakeholes. Through the glass wall I stood there, looking at these indulgent richie-riches as though I were a starving puppy or homeless girl in dire need of nourishment. Won’t someone throw me a bit of almond pastry? Not to worry, baklava is on the way.

The atéliers are held downstairs in the basement of the museum and we walked down a set of stairs in the back to make our way to our five senses. On one of the landings was an oddly out-of-place snack vending machine. Mars Bars, Kit-Kats, and Milka Balls beckoned. Don’t distract me. Baklava is on the way.

We’re herded into a room frescoed with an enormous map of the Arab world. Three of my senses tell me there is no food in the room. My sense of hearing is stirred by the Arab lute music being piped over the PA system. Sense number one—hearing—check. That’s quickly taken care of. Good, good.

A woman comes out and gives a lecture about how there are 22 Arab countries. Sense of geography? My mind plays devil’s advocate and I try to figure out if there are really 20 or 24 or 25 and she’s just not counting them all. I want to raise my hand and ask if she’s counting Palestine. Point of information. She also tells us that in Arabic, the letter P is a B and so papa is actually baba. The kids giggle. I wonder if this works in reverse. Where is my paklava?

Next comes the sense of sight. Each kid is given a children’s book in Arabic and the woman explains that you read from right to left, both on a macro level (the book) and a micro level (each page, line, and word). I don’t think she phrased it in economic terms. Of course, most of the kids in my son’s class are Arab, so they know this. Several kids ask me to read them their book. I apologize and tell them that I can’t. Why not? My mommy can read Arabic. Why can’t you? “Because I’m a dumbshit,” I reply, in English. I love this language barrier thing. I get to say all sorts of things in English to little kids that would get me in trouble back in my country. I continue in English, asking one of the little girls, “Do you know where the baklava is?”

Next is the sense of smell. This was really cool. The woman had a little wooden box with a divider down the middle and on each side were about 15 glass jars containing spices. So there were 30 jars and 15 spices. Each spice was in two different forms and our job was to get the kids to match the smells. Each spice was from the Arab world. For example, you had cumin seeds in one of the jars on the right side and ground cumin in one of the jars on the left. The smells were all encompassing. I was light-headed by now. Can I secretly stick my tongue in one of those little jars and eat the spices? Will anyone notice? When are we doing the sense of baklava?

Next was the sense of touch. This was also really cool. The woman had a wooden box of damask fabrics from Syria. Dozens and dozens of them. Patterns ranging from simple stripes to pretty florals to ornate images telling stories. The kids were to touch them and group them by color and pattern. My blood sugar was reaching a low point and instead of seeing images of little men hunting animals in the fabric, I was hallucinating images of little women having tea parties, munching on baklava.

Finally after almost two hours, we’ve taken care of four senses. I was getting so excited. There’s only one sense left. Taste! The sense that I live for. Oh, would it really be baklava?

And then the woman announced that it was time for the rangement—time to pick up. Could we please make sure all the fabrics and spices are back in their boxes? All the books are back on the shelves? All the little chairs are tucked back under the tables? I wonder if we’re cleaning up before we break bread together.

How many Arab countries are there?, she yells out. Vingt-deux, the kids yell back. How do you say goodbye in Arabic?, she asks. Half the class already knows the answer and yells out ma as-salaamah. I am lost. Is it time for goodbye? Where is taste? They have taste in the Arab world, right? Taste is a sense, right? Am I wrong? Are there just four? Is this like the whole “sometimes y” thing? Is taste a part-timer when it comes to senses? Where is my baklava?

A four-fifths learning experience. You hate to see the system fail the children. Or the parents. I wanted my baklava, as a matter of principle. All in the name of education. If they're going to call it five senses, they have to feed me something!

I briefly considered telling the woman that I wasn't leaving unless she fed me. I even thought about staging a sit-in. But then I imagined the headline: "American Woman Protests at Arab Institute in Paris." People would have thought it was about an important political issue. Some profound statement about the war in Iraq. The Middle East. The price of oil. I wouldn't be able to explain to the talking heads that it's really just about baklava.

So I grudgingly forewent the sit-in/forced hunger strike and helped the kids back into their coats and we all went back to school. Sans baklava.