It’s week 3 and as much as I fall in love with all the places that I go to and want to pack up and move across the globe, France really tugs at my heart strings. I wouldn’t mind chowing down on a baguette a day.
After losing my soul drinking Guinness in Ireland, there are a lot of reminders in Paris. An Irish pub appears to pop up on every corner and haunt me just a wee bit.
The French use cigarettes as an extension of their breathing tubes. If you drag on a fag, you might as well wear a striped shirt, beret, dog on a leash and have a crusty baguette tucked under your arm.
It is acceptable to eat dessert more than once a day. French women don’t get fat, right?
I have heard the twang of an Australian accent everyday; from Paris to Nice to Marseille. There’s been more Aussies here than Brits. In St Germain, Paris, one told me that ‘Kiwis can’t play football, aye’. And a Paul Hogan doppelgänger minus the spoon knife and quintessential hat tried to drunkenly chat me up on a day train to Nice. His companion wasn’t so happy when the train pulled into Nice Ville and drunk Hogan couldn’t be found. 10 minutes later he stumbled off the train and exclaimed “There you are! Aish been looking for you everywhereeeeeeeeeeee!”
Parisienne women barely wear make-up, natural beauty shines through.
If you are low in self esteem or think that you are in the slightest bit unattractive, come to France. You’ll get chatted up in the boulangerie, followed from the Metropolitan and bonjoured at your breasts. Even your feet get some love… upon leaving Nice, an older man randomly asked my mate “Can I kiss your feet? I have a foot fetish.”
I have perfected the art of ‘Parisienne face’.
It is acceptable to eat cheese more than once a day. French women don’t get fat, right?
The streets are an al fresco bathroom. From the piss stained pavements to the brown smears of dog poop; creating the world’s largest outdoor tribute to a Jackson Pollock painting. You wouldn’t want to ruin your Louboutins.
I queued to get into the exclusive Christian Louboutin store for half an hour, then I tried on a pair of 1500 euro works of art. For a small moment in my life, I actually contemplated purchasing the beaded beauties. I couldn’t be effed queuing in the Eiffel Tower line and I scoffed at a cafe that wanted to charge 8 euros for a cappuccino, but I would happily purchase and treasure the red-soled stilettos? What can I say… I get shoe drunk.
Why is Paris romantic? Maybe it’s the couples sauntering hand in hand, the mass amounts of PDA on every corner (more than a peck, less than sex), or perhaps it’s the male counterparts laden down with shopping bags boasting Louis Vuitton and Chanel. Surely that’s worth a night of sexy time. I was half expecting to randomly bite into a diamond ring while enjoying a macaron.
I thought getting engaged in Paris might be too cheesy, until I saw the magnitude of the Eiffel Tower at a magnifique sunset picnic… and the bridge over the Seine where couples madly in love seal their fate with a personalized padlock and toss the keys into the river. Ooh lah lah!
French pigeons can only be described as sneaky bastards. They flit around like they own the place and then they waltz on passed you into a restaurant, have a feed, walk out and don’t pay.
Finding a bar to have a drink in and dance can be quite tricky, but once you do you’ll be feeling sorry for yourself the next day.
Apparently it’s possible to fall asleep during the Moulin Rouge show, even when pert boobs jiggle about on stage. Two gentlemen in front of me missed out on what can only be described as a spectacular show, when they nodded off. They missed the topless woman swimming with snakes and the miniature ponies parading and refraining from crapping on the stage (because they know that the place to do that is on the street).
Walking around in Marseille is like walking around in an eclectic Middle Eastern city. There is a diverse range of cultures, all speaking French.
Cassis is literally what dreams are made of. After a recommendation by locals years ago, I finally made it and it is tres bien. The perfect way to spend my last day in France and my last day of being 30. I actually had an epiphany while floating in the Mediterranean Sea and looking up at the Calanques de Cassis. Now I’m left wondering who will sponsor me for a few months while I live in France and write my book?
And here’s no surprise… lack of self control has moved from drinking to desserting. One cannot say no to a patisserie or five.