Walking through Paris and life calls for la langue la plus belle du monde.
Pardon my French.
Which means, “Excuse me, but I’m reading right now.” Very useful when you’re sitting in the Métro, minding your own business. And suddenly the incredibly charming monsieur to your right follows you off the train, into a café, and just like that has developed a burning fascination for rather alarming intimate details. Like where you spray your perfume, before bed, at 3.am, or what laundry detergent you prefer for your delicates. In plain english:
There’s no use resisting. Feathery, flaky, buttery, heaven. Soft bits of cloud-like dough dusted with snow white powdered sugar. Darling, beautiful french is lyrical- you’re expressing: Why yes, oh how delightful. “No, really. Ten beignets please, and the croissant as well. In fact, two.” The boulanger assumes you’re throwing a little brunch, a morning fête with champagne and strawberries. Maybe a tête-à-tête where you two nibble on some delicacies before you nibble on each other. Little do they know:
“Another glass, please.” You smile at the bartender, or the handsome garçon or belle fille intent on buying you a drink. You may or may not be listening to anything they’re saying, but yes please. Indulge, but not too much. Actually, do what you want and…
“Yes, I’m ready.” Mademoiselle, would you like to stare into the Seine pretending we’re starving artists waiting for a miracle? Dinner tomorrow at midnight? Waking up early around 1 pm because your still lost in the city? On fera l’amour ce soir? Strangely appealing opportunities are once in a lifetime. I had a girlfriend who agreed to a casual date with a waiter and the next thing she knew they were zipping across Paris on his vespa. But she said the best part was eating delights he stole from where he worked- the classiest café in all of France. Once again in english:
“I don’t know why, but I love you already.” I was in that dreamy state of one too many glasses of wine. I tapered over to the next room, the warm bed, left the party and the chatter and the cigarette smoke. He followed me in, and between my hazy vision and the softness of a stranger’s bed, I heard him say those words. But that’s another story for another day, and very simply:
After all, this is France…XO