One of the best things about having a blog is that you can publicly condemn your "fictional" characters via your rapier wit. For example, the Giant... JK Rowling discusses the implications of Giants in her soul-enchanting-love-heralding-spiritually-inspiring masterpiece, "Harry Potter". "Harry, they're just vicious, giants. It's like Hagrid said, it's in their natures, they're like trolls... they just like killing, everyone knows that." Now, do I think that the Giants of Paris fit this perilous description? Surely not. But if we replace the word killing with "possibly unintentional but sometimes quite provocative douchebaggery", I think we've come a lot closer... Is it of course possible that I am harboring just a touch of women-spurned animosity? No doubt! But mainly due to my injured narcissism than anything else. No hearts were wounded, no pride debased. But its seems as though three times is definitely a charm to those who do not understand magic. And whilst the Eiffel Tower continues to guide the hearts of love-imbibing wanderers, I shall simply hex those threatening its gaze...
And speaking of light and love, I am daily astounded at the very true reality that Parisian women own more black clothing than I could possibly have imagined. Not one piece of color on some of these waifs! What is it they say about how smiling on the outside makes you smile on the inside? Well, how can you smile when you are constantly cloaked in a shroud? Not that I don't own some black clothing, especially in winter, but I think I just look bizarre when there isn't even a tiny bit of flare to cut through the fog. There are days that, being as short as I am, and making jokes about giants, I feel like I am a Munchkin lost in the pre-technicolor Kansas monotony...
Happily, this past weekend was full of the decadent frivolity I so often crave. My good friend from New York whom I met during my epic years at Nespresso, and who I often refer to as Dorothy from Kansas, was my first visitor to these Parisian lands! Though she was vacationing with her French boyfriend, I was lucky enough to get one whole ladies night with my fun friend. After showing her the Trocadero and Eiffel Tower, we trekked back to my apartment through twister-like winds and torrential downpours to prep for our evening out. We had decided upon a restaurant called "Le Refuge Des Fondues" where we were promised fondue and wine in baby bottles. A small, stuffy little establishment clearly marked by tourists, you are invited in and than offered a hand to climb onto a chair and walk over the table to sit down. You are then brought a tray of strange little appetizers along with an undefined aperitif. Following this, two questions: #1) la viande ou du fromage? (meat or cheese?) and #2) rouge ou blanc? (red or white?) No menu, no prices, no explanations, no fuss... As you are sat rather closely to other tables, we were told by two American girls on our right that the cheese was not good, and then later in the evening made friends with three British folk to our left, whom we joined for a final drink at another bar post-dinner. Let's keep in mind that my friend and I had two glasses of wine before dinner, an aperitif and two baby bottles at dinner (each baby bottle was possibly 2-3 glasses), and then another glass to end the night. I have no regrets about this evening, as it welcomed my dear compatriot to Paris and inaugurated my first night out on the town with a friend from home, but in addition to possibly texting every man in my phone, I had a two and a half day hangover...
Upcoming Trailer: This weekend I head to Ireland! And... Language Exchange is DEFINITELY not only about exchanging languages ; )
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