One of the best things about living in London is being able to escape to another country for a quick weekend getaway. This weekend we went to Paris to see the Jean-Michel Basquiat Retrospective (so awesome). Everything else after that was a mere bonus.
Unfortunately we don't speak French, not like the infantile way we can speak Italian. Sure we can say the basic things like "hello/goodbye/please/thank you" (and someone taught me how to say "blowjob" the night before) but everything after that is just gibberish to me.
They don't like it.
In Italy you can get away with speaking pathetic Italian and eventually through a mime dance of sign language and arm waving you can come to the same conclusion. In Paris however they just roll their eyes at you. We walked into a bar and asked in our infantile french for a table for 2 (success) then the waiter started talking to us asking if we wanted a table near the window/a drinks menu (this is my guess) and all we can do is stand there with our mouths open catching flies going "duuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" no wonder they hate us.
Note to self: Learn French!!
They also either hated the way I was dressed/or they really loved it. To be honest - it wasn't anything outrageous. It was just a fluffy skirt under a jacket:
Now I don't take any notice of people taking notice of me - I just walk around and do my thing - but Mark however was like "everyone is staring at you" apparently they would walk past and then turn around and do a double take.
Haven't you ever seen a fluffy skirt before?? I thought this was Paris!!!!!!!! Not Bowral.
They must have thought I was some sort of Moulin Rouge Escapee - who bears a striking resemblance to a prostitute who was arrested in an assassination attempt on the French President. Good.. Exactly the look I was going for.
The rest of the time was spent eating raw steak/drinking crazy cocktails and looking for garbage bins to dance in for the upcoming Stroggles new release track. Unfortunately Paris is a very clean city so finding a pile of garbage was difficult. Not like Ladbroke Grove!! It was good to get home and wander down our street marvelling at all the piles of garbage we could have jumped in.
j'aime des ordures