1. There is nothing more beautiful than Paris in the rain. Bullshit, Woody. I don't know if you've noticed, but besides being a boyfriend killer, rain is wet, sir. Wet and cold. Paris in the rain is like everywhere else in the rain: unpleasant. There aren't hoardes of people meandering about in the rain admiring the majestic beauty of the moistened avenues. No, sir. They're all flipping up umbrellas and trying to gtfo the streets. Unless, of course, you're walking back from returning the rental car with your mother in which case you will, indeed, walk ten blocks in the rain--but you'll be shivering and pissed and not at all in the admiring mood.
2. Les jardins de Monet are a secluded romantic spot. Not so, Woody, not so. Les jardins de Monet are a place for disgruntled school children to trample unchecked through 200 year old gardenias in persuit of wild chickens and pungent homeless men to stand by and hope no one notices them pissing in the water lilli pond. Entertaining? Perhaps. Romantic? Not quite.
3. Owen Wilson could roam easily through the city streets. At this point, Woody, I'm beginning to doubt you've ever been to Paris. Owen is a person of respectable size and stature. Little known fact: Paris was built to make Napoleon feel tall. My father, not the largest of gents, can't help but mow down miniature Parisians on our way through the Metro. I have to duck my 5'4" head in order to walk through the doorway to the hotel's breakfast room. Setting Owen Wilson loose on the city would be like Yao Ming in the Shire. The man is a Goliath among Davids. Owen Wilson needs somewhere a bit bigger--like Portland, Oregon.
4. The Streets are Paved with Taxis. Oh no, no, no. In the movie, all Owen or Rachel McAdams had to do was to lazily fling their arm out into the road and a Taxi would materialize out of thin air, as though taxis were roaming Paris in the hundreds, searching for willing customers. I mean, the man caught a taxi back in time, for God's sake. I could do backflips up and down Rue de Honore, naked, while a trained elephant sent up solar flares, and the Paris taxi drivers wouldn't so much as blink an eye. Needless to say the metro and I have gotten very farmilar.
5. Paris is oozing with writing talent. Paris? The Paris known for painting, fashion and sculpture? American writers all did time here in the '20s, but French? Are there even any French writers out there? Oh, that's right, Dumas. Pronounced in the U.S. dumbass.
6. French Men are oh-so-romantic. But it's their B.O. we remember most.
7. "There's nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune, but from way out in space you can see these lights, the cafés, people drinking and singing. For all we know, Paris is the hottest spot in the universe." Well there you have me, Woody. Paris, in fact, does seem to be the center of the universe--and I'm in love with it.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Catholic Hell, Party of Two
There are lots of things I love about my father.
I love the way his old suede jacket smells like Christmas. I love the way he can make anyone laugh. I love the way he can fit my hand in one of his and make me feel safe, and warm and loved.
But I really hate the way my father speaks to foreigners.
For one thing, he starts to act out everything that he's saying with large hand gestures, like he's playing a game of charades--regardless of whether or not they speak English. Next, he adopts this accent that can only be described as foreign: it sounds like a cross between Ranjeed the cab driver from How I Met Your Mother and a Tunisian fisherwoman. Even worse he starts to speak in the colloquial diction of a Pakistani street peddler: "Come here, my friend! What can I do for you today?"
Now my father does a lot of offensive things. For the past four days he's been walking around in a big black Jack Daniels cowboy hat that he bought in the Houston airport. Even in France, he speaks to all waiters in Spanish and orders french fries with every meal. But this isn't like any of those things: he has no idea he's doing it.
I'm not sure if the switch is flipped after he hears someone is not American or after he hears them speak in an accent, but once he gets going it's impossible to hold a conversation with him. The foreigner in question isn't quite sure what he's saying--they just know that they should be offended.
At home, this isn't an issue most of the time; (with the exception of the time an unfortunate party planner sat my father next to a Swiss couple at a banquet and they asked to switch tables. Mistakes were made), but here in France it's quickly becoming a big problem.
It all came to head Saturday during our D Day tour.
We had been driving for half an hour or so when our tour guide, Catherine, pulled into the parking lot of a small church.
"There was a paratrooper who landed here, and they have made a memorial for him inside," she explained yanking up the parking break. "I want you to see it."
As we got out of the car, she pulled me aside.
"Listen, have you been to Europe before?"
I nodded.
"Well, here, at a lot of the churches they are kind of...old fashioned, especially at the smaller ones like this. Usually most people are sure to wear pants or a long skirt."
I looked down. Thinking that, during our "D Day beach tour" we would be spending time on beaches, I had worn shorts. She smiled at me.
"Don't worry about it, you didn't know! But there is an old priest here who is a little...how you say...cuckoo? And he is big into modesty. He can be a bit grouchy, so we'll just make sure he doesn't see you, OK?"
We hadn't been in the church for more than five minutes when a cloaked man came out from behind the alter. Catherine turned to me, eyes wide, and started to shoo me away. I tried to hide behind a 1,000 year old pig sclupture, but it was too late. The priest had already seen me.
He turned, and made a beeline for our guide, berrating her in very angry French.
Then he turned to me, paralyzed behind the pig, and violently shook his cruicifix in my direction.
"Harlot!" he spit out. (In case you didn't know, "Harlot" is French priest for "knee flaunting skank").
It was a this point that my father, unaware of my recent condemnation, decided to interject.
"Bonjour, my friend! Ve are de Amer-aca! Yew 'ave ah bea-u-diful church, heare!"
Maybe he did it intentionally: sacraficing himself to distract the priest from me, but I seriously doubt it. He was very confused when Catherine hussled us the hell out and dropped an extra five euro in the donation basket at the door.
I love the way his old suede jacket smells like Christmas. I love the way he can make anyone laugh. I love the way he can fit my hand in one of his and make me feel safe, and warm and loved.
But I really hate the way my father speaks to foreigners.
For one thing, he starts to act out everything that he's saying with large hand gestures, like he's playing a game of charades--regardless of whether or not they speak English. Next, he adopts this accent that can only be described as foreign: it sounds like a cross between Ranjeed the cab driver from How I Met Your Mother and a Tunisian fisherwoman. Even worse he starts to speak in the colloquial diction of a Pakistani street peddler: "Come here, my friend! What can I do for you today?"
Now my father does a lot of offensive things. For the past four days he's been walking around in a big black Jack Daniels cowboy hat that he bought in the Houston airport. Even in France, he speaks to all waiters in Spanish and orders french fries with every meal. But this isn't like any of those things: he has no idea he's doing it.
I'm not sure if the switch is flipped after he hears someone is not American or after he hears them speak in an accent, but once he gets going it's impossible to hold a conversation with him. The foreigner in question isn't quite sure what he's saying--they just know that they should be offended.
At home, this isn't an issue most of the time; (with the exception of the time an unfortunate party planner sat my father next to a Swiss couple at a banquet and they asked to switch tables. Mistakes were made), but here in France it's quickly becoming a big problem.
It all came to head Saturday during our D Day tour.
We had been driving for half an hour or so when our tour guide, Catherine, pulled into the parking lot of a small church.
"There was a paratrooper who landed here, and they have made a memorial for him inside," she explained yanking up the parking break. "I want you to see it."
As we got out of the car, she pulled me aside.
"Listen, have you been to Europe before?"
I nodded.
"Well, here, at a lot of the churches they are kind of...old fashioned, especially at the smaller ones like this. Usually most people are sure to wear pants or a long skirt."
I looked down. Thinking that, during our "D Day beach tour" we would be spending time on beaches, I had worn shorts. She smiled at me.
"Don't worry about it, you didn't know! But there is an old priest here who is a little...how you say...cuckoo? And he is big into modesty. He can be a bit grouchy, so we'll just make sure he doesn't see you, OK?"
We hadn't been in the church for more than five minutes when a cloaked man came out from behind the alter. Catherine turned to me, eyes wide, and started to shoo me away. I tried to hide behind a 1,000 year old pig sclupture, but it was too late. The priest had already seen me.
He turned, and made a beeline for our guide, berrating her in very angry French.
Then he turned to me, paralyzed behind the pig, and violently shook his cruicifix in my direction.
"Harlot!" he spit out. (In case you didn't know, "Harlot" is French priest for "knee flaunting skank").
It was a this point that my father, unaware of my recent condemnation, decided to interject.
"Bonjour, my friend! Ve are de Amer-aca! Yew 'ave ah bea-u-diful church, heare!"
Maybe he did it intentionally: sacraficing himself to distract the priest from me, but I seriously doubt it. He was very confused when Catherine hussled us the hell out and dropped an extra five euro in the donation basket at the door.
Les D Day plages et Mont Saint Michelle
D Day Beaches:
When Garrett asked our tour guide why they didn't clear out the weeds and grass that had started to grow over the D Day beaches, she replied: "There has been so much death here. If something beautiful wants to make life, who are we to stop it? People have to heal, but so do places."
At the US cemetary, an Italian Mountain Brigade/marching band asked if they could play a short concert. The men ran everywhere they went, and each had an entire chicken ass attached to their hats.
Mont Saint Michelle:
Mont Saint Michelle:
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