Any Way You Slice it

Bread: fundamental element of life. Especially in France.
This photo is taken from my 5th floor balcony. The throng of people on the street, half hidden by the awning, and largely non-representative of the true scope of the mob, is the line to buy bread. There's a bakery on the street level of my building, "Boulangerie Maritime" (apparently so named due to our 2-block proximity to the Port of Nice). And within this picture lies a primal instinct of the French - fresh bread, every day.
To me, as a time-conscious American, the idea of shifting my weight from foot to foot for 15 minutes every day waiting in line so I can spend 80 cents for a baguette of white fiberless bread is not only unreasonable, it's pure insanity.
I make the usual unfeeling jokes to my husband "What is this, Russia?" "Is the apocalypse coming tonight?" "Are the Germans on their way back?". He shakes his head and stuffs another mouthful of warm bread into his mouth. "Eeet eees not like deees. Dees bread ees pairt of oooo we are."
The clincher is that you can't stock up on the stuff. If you don't eat it the day you buy it, it's hard as a rock the next morning. And trying to throw it in the freezer doesn't do the trick either. It's like a vicious cycle - you must go back everyday to get your fix. I was thinking about my friends in highschool who used to get jobs for the Vermont Dept of Transportation, sitting in lawn chairs at intersections and counting how many cars came through. In about a month, when my pregnancy truly limits my ability to be in the classroom, I'm going to work for the French Dept of Bread, if it exists. I am going to sit on my balcony and take notes on the people and count how long they spend in line each day waiting for their one baguette. Imagine the cumulative time spent waiting for your baguette on a yearly basis - staggering.
Once or twice a week when at the supermarket, I buy my "loaf" of square-shaped sliced wheat bread, with its preservatives and a soft crust that doesn't cut up the roof of your mouth when you make a sandwich. It's called "Harry's American", even though it is made in France, they call it "American" bread because it isn't fresh, and essentially represents what the French think of our food - square and full of chemicals and no inspiration.
Bakeries are everywhere in France, I mean EVERYWHERE. It is amazing to me that this part of their culture remains staunchly rooted in their day-to-day routines, despite the trickle-down effects of globalization. But, when you have and hour and a half, or two hours to go home and eat lunch every day, why not wait in line for the good stuff? C'est la vie.