J’aime, La Croix


Photo Illustration by Sam Ko

They say French is the language of love. Something about Casablanca, the Eiffel Tower and baguettes just ooze romance. I never understood the connection that so many wax poetic about. That was, of course, until I tried La Croix.

Ah, La Croix. 21 flavors of joy that speak to the heart. Pamplemousse, Mango, Cerise Limón. Effervescent and delightfully fruity, La Croix taught me true love. Finally, someone understands the essence of my eclectic, old-world soul.

I spent years searching for love. I’ve been burnt by fiery passion that fizzles out as quickly as it begins, drowned in tears saltier than club soda and left as frigid as the tips of my fingers when I crack open a cold one with the boys.

My first love was foreign—an Italian with an effortless, vintage style. I called him Pellegrino for short. Our love was blazing at first. I was ensnared by Pellegrino’s devilish good looks and air of high society. But eventually the mineral taste Pellegrino left with me grew tiresome. Indeed, there was no pop.

My second love was a classic. Perry was an easy choice, entirely unoffending and placid. The bubbling in my heart was soft and delicate, but I always felt like I was missing out on something. Lamenting my monogamy, I watched as my friends experimented. They walked around with a different flavor can every day, leaving me as green as the bottle in my heart. Yes, that’s when I met La Croix.

I guess you could say it was love at first sight. Under the cover of night so Perry wouldn’t find out, I tried my first. A lime.

The next day, I left Perry in the dust to pursue the real gem of France. I haven’t returned to him since. Sometimes I see him lingering as I pick up my next six pack of La Croix. I don’t look back. C’est la vie.

I can’t say that our love has been all smooth sailing. I’ve lost friendships over flavor ranking disputes. I live by a new life creed now. If you cheat on Pamplemousse, delete my number.

But they don’t understand the lessons I’ve learned about love from my sparkling odyssey. The French just do it better. Something about the culture and language infuse La Croix with a fruitiness that transcends generic watery juice box. La Croix’s fizz mirrors my own soul when I spot the last can in the deep reaches of the fridge.

I’ve begun to plan my—sorry, our—trip to Paris this summer. I’ll spend the days sipping my fashionable aluminum can, speaking to the locals in their native tongue while holding in my burps. Parlez-vous La Croix?

They said our love wouldn’t last this long, but little did they know other brands taste like cat pee. J’aime, La Croix.