Paris.

I don't know, maybe it is or maybe it isn't my favorite place in the world. How about this..? GEOGRAPHICALLY..it's my favorite place. Obviously I'm not going to over ride the happy place of the warmth of my kiddos hugs for a 'almost fell on my ass because I didn't grab the rail' metro trip, but you get my point.

The first trip was 4 years ago. I clamored for months trying to learn at least some of the language. The stuff I would NEED. Anyone can ask for an extra glass of water...without carbonation. I planned on needing the good stuff. "Pardon me sir, I have seriously overeaten and would like the care of a fine physician in a stellar hospital. Can you help me?", or "I am trying to tell you I have the Mother of ALL Hangovers, and am willing to give you much of this multi-coloured paper money to make it go away."

Yes, for what seemed like an eternity, each morning I'd play the same lessons on the stereo in the bathroom telling me how to order a glass of red wine ('vin rouge'), explain how I was going to walk around the block, and then order 'something else'(Autre chose). Nothing about cheese, museums, taxis, or talking my way out of staring at people with really,really bad hair. No I was going to subsist on red wine, walking and something else. For a week.

Here's the deal: if one just tries...tries the language, each time the French have given me extra-super credit, and they open up with their English, and their humor. They become positively helpful. One night I was hungry, which is entirely common while walking past bakery after bakery...when I walked into...a bakery. A boulangerie ."Je voudrais cinq croissant, si vous plait.", I attempt to order 5 rolls. The lovely 50-something lady behind the counter asked if I wanted them in a bag to go, I think. I fumbled to keep up my front. I blurted something out in English. She stopped. Smiled. Slowed the conversation down. "Please. Use your French." And then, she waited. Waited on me to organize a thought, figure out the words and go again. I told her that I would like to take them to go...or I told her to feed the zebra...either way, she smiled hugely, asked for about 3 euros, and we were done. I have been smitten ever since.

Paris is a cheater town though. One can go there, not know a lick about parlez this or parlez that, and probably get along fine. Eating is the most obvious example. The menu will say something that shares a word over here, but means something entirely different there. You may want the "Outback Caesar salad with extra croutons on the side, and instead of Caesar dressing can you bring out a fat free vinaigrette, and maybe..cos we're on vacation and all...maybe get some shrimp (steamed) on the side." Yeah, that ain't happening. But if you want just a salad, and you ask nicely...you might get it. But...as I've learned..but, why would you? It's France, get out of your own way. Order the thing that you wouldn't eat on a bet from your cousin JimBob. Like mom used to say, "try ...one...bite."

My favorite soup in the world is there. In case I didn't express the point earlier, I'm not very fluent in French, so I'm mostly on the "I'll trust you not to kill me, and you'll trust that my ghost won't come back to haunt your cafe'"-plan when it comes to ordering. The soup of the evening had been explained in very, very,very broken English, that it would be a Cream of Celery. Ok...about 98th on Top 100 Campbell's hits, but my survival wasn't in jeopardy. All that other writing on the menu must be talking about the temperate regions the Celery was grown, huh? So the soup hits the table, and well, there's nuts in my soup. No, not the Stillwater kind of nuts, the nuts kind of nuts. Pistachios to be exact. Finely chopped. Sitting in about 4 drops of some sort of oil ON TOP of the CREAM soup. I take a sip and go from thinking thoughts of how many books I'll read in the bathroom, to getting dibs on the bowl across me. There is a couple next to me that have had it before and know what's next. When French people stare at you when you are eating, you ain't eating Campbell's. In the bottom of the bowl, in litta bitty pieces was the foie. I had a big spoonful, smiled at my next table company, and they smiled back. "C'est tres bon."

Sometimes the language really is lost. It's no one's fault, it just is. Things are taken or understood differently. If everywhere was Mobile, Alabama would the world be a better place? I dunno. Mobile may be killer. But how do they get that "O" sound out of "-ault". I mean just look for yourself




It's a beautiful city. Sure the things like the Eiffel Tour and the Louvre are amazing. But the little things are fascinating. The one thing that grabbed me was the produce. So many little places to buy fruit, flowers,...one here, another 2 blocks away. So bright and alive. And it had to be bought today. Now. And it was.







Countless folks walking home with a fresh baguette, a small handful of veggies, and cheese. So simple and uncomplicated. So few really fat people. Usually, the really fat folks were the Americans. Yeah us... I mean if you are going to pass out, why not make it the Louvre?




This last trip was less about fitting into a new culture and more about just riding the tide OF the culture. Seeing museums became secondary to moving in the city. Walking into stores, trying on clothes; or buying glasses, or that fiend, chocolate. No, none of the locals were faked out because I was wearing my brown shoes instead of my Asics, or the fact that I was as tough as they were not needing a big down parka, because yes, I wore the same long handles under my 501's for 7 days, which was really interesting especially when on Day 6 they elastic waistband said,"Enough", and decided to ride about mid-cheek for the rest of the trip. Yeah,...it's not as hot as you may be thinking, even I will admit to that. Especially going from the relative support of jeans to the blousyness of dress pants at the Opera. Yes, I walked around the Opera House yankin on my pants looking like I'm trying to find Mr. Haney to get the ladder to climb up the telephone pole to call the folks back home and tell them about these here singerfolks. And let's just say it was a tad warmish to begin with inside the place without the help of anything out of the Cabela's catalog.

Made me wanna go out and walk around, drinking red wine....or autre chose.