We had decided that one day in Paris would be designated as our "alone day" -- time to spend on our own, doing whatever we felt like doing. Today was it! For me, that meant shopping in the Marais, of course. It rained on and off, but Paris doesn't really slow down much in the rain. People just dash from store to store, covering their heads with a newspaper or a jacket. I started off in the upper Marais, visiting shops that I sadly can't afford on this trip, and feeling wistful about one-of-a-kind handpainted silk dresses that should be mine. Then, I bought a French Vogue and tucked in for a thoroughly average lunch with some thoroughly breathtaking fashion:
Feeling restored, I braved the rain for a full afternoon of bargain hunting, and came away with several new treasures. Here's the day's loot: a leather trench, a floaty pink scarf, a greige blouse, a new belt (just the sort I've been looking for, actually), a pretty necklace, a bottle of Poire, and, of course, French Vogue:
The most interesting part of the day, however, was the realization that without Scott in tow, people think I'm French. Five seconds after leaving the apartment, a French girl stopped me to ask for directions. Two different men attempted to hit on me in French. And every shopkeeper greeted my "bonjour" with a decidedly non-American welcome, followed by rapid conversation that I could only follow about half of the time. Huh. It's both fun and flattering to feel as if I can now blend into the city as one of its own...although I'll be happy to reunite Cohen Hall for another French adventure tomorrow.
Speaking of Cohen, let's see how his "alone day" went, shall we -- hey, who the hell are you?
OH LADIES, I see you have relocated to Francais looking for party times, eh? Well, you are part of VERY EXCLUSIVE PARTY, YA? PARTY FOR SEX!!!!!
You wonder why I am here and I tell you. I follow these two Americains because I know they are deeply sexy people, you see, they have much the sex of them and also the cocaines? Although personally I do not know why they come to Parie, Parie is full of gay Parisians, not ladies looking for hot Eurotrash guy to supply them with party drugs and then steal 20€ for Metro and Croque Monsieur, NO?
Speaking of Croque Madame, this Lauren, I stalk her during her trip. Her huzz-BAND is stupid Americain man, clumsy like something that is very CLUMSY! He stumble through these catacombs. Who cares for catacombs, says I. I see dead people all the time, DEAD ON THEIR FEET THAT IS at 3 AM because they cannot handle their Kronenburg! Meanwhile I am still raging on and harding on into ladies on the floor, ya? He goes to Eiffel Tower and somehow winds up on Champs-Elysses, why he go there? At least afterwards he wanders into Marais, and at least makes attempt at looking ready for party although he buy nothing because he is spending all his € on coffee and CHEESE? And then! He goes to Montmarte, where there is no sexiness! And then the rain comes and he heads home, whatever, he is very boring man and probably goes to sleep in crib AND I DO NOT MEAN LIKE ON THE MTV.
But his lady-wife...oh, his lady-wife. She is like creme brulle mixed with Shabu. I follow her through stores and I want to approach and say HELLO YOU ARE LOOKING FOR PARTY, YA? Yet these Americain women, they do not appreciate my charms! They call me Eurotrash Guy! They mock my scarf!!! Do they know? Look around you, snotty Americain women, every man in France has a scarf! Do they also know where to score Ecstasy? NON!!! The straight ones, anyway, the gays they have their own universe and who cares because do gays have heaving large Americain --
ACH! THEY HAVE THAT HERE, TOO??? Ah God, I need a carafe...GARCON, CARAFE!!!
Editor's note: Eurotrash Guy is a piece of fiction. No drugs were consumed in the making of this blog. I promise, mom.