Perhaps not as gay as our recent journey to Amsterdam Gay Pride, but gay nonetheless. Or perhaps it's just that all the men in this country yeild that impression due to their liberal use of capris pants, v-neck sweaters and their toy poodle companions. Surely it's the reason I didn't find a French husband. Other stereotypes shockingly held true in Paris as well. Most obviously was that every man, woman and child does indeed carry a baguette with them everywhere and at all times. Another factual convention being that all the women here are actually supermodel thin. How these two seemingly contradictory customs can simultaneously exist might only be explained in the other underlying messages in Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code".
Since we're on the topic of France and bread products I should mention that I am allergic to gluten (and dairy to make everything extra stupid) and being in Paris is like being repeatedly slapped in the face since you have to pass a patisserie every 10 feet. The onslaught of fresh baked aromas was more than my poor olfactory system could handle. Kelly also happens to be a fellow glutard, so at least we could bitch about it together. However, after 10 brutal days of this French torture it was time to put an end to Paris's confection oppression. We researched the best god damn bakery in Paris and marched ourselves down there early one morning to catch the chocolate croissants straight out of the oven. After saying a prayer to the gastrointestinal gods I proceeded to have a brief and intense love affair with said baked good. For the other victim's protection, I won't disclose the details of Kelly's own personal experience. Was it worth it? Ask me when my bowel movements have returned to a state of semi-soundness.
Enough about me, let's talk about Kelly's family. Oh I wish I had some good gossip to indulge you, but unfortunately they are lovely. We stayed with Kelly's dad who is spending a few months in France. He was nicer to me than any sane person should be to a complete hobo. He let us monopolize the washing machine, eat his groceries and invade his personal space in general. He continued to spoil us by taking us to every museum I'd ever dreamed of going to in Paris. It was the first time I've lived the high life since we started this trip (as if I normally live a extravagant lifestyle when I'm back home). It was also just nice to get to know Jeff. Kelly and I have been friends for 11 years, but the most time I've spent with him prior to Paris is when he dropped us off at the airport last September. And dare I say he got to know me too. Perhaps more that he wanted, but I'd to think we are close now. Especially after the day he came home and I was doubled over in pain from a failed high kick attempt. Jeff walked in the door to us blasting pop music at an inappropriate volume for an old French apartment building at the end of an epic high kicking competition (which I obviously lost) thus my usual colorful language spilling forth as you readers might have come to expect. Hopefully he liked getting to know me too. Maybe?
I'd like to think France was where my true tourist spirit shined (this primarily made possible by Jeff Brittan). Eiffel Tower; check. The Louvre; check. Arch de Triomphe; check. Drinking before noon; double check. We even got to see the Notre Dame Cathedral, which I've been lusting to see for ages now for it's Gothic architecture, flying buttresses and grand scale stained glass. Plus, who doesn't want to get a picture of their best friend posing as the Hunchback of Notre Dame in front of THE Notre Dame? A group of Italian tourists were highly impressed as I helped Kelly position her bag under her shirt for the perfect hump effect. I can go home now feeling like I've properly done France.
Just hanging with my new buddy Jeff
best. hunch. ever!!!
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