humans are funny

Category: France

  • Merde-y Moments

    India taught me to live in the moment. If you worry about the crowd of shark-like rickshaw drivers ready to devour you upon arrival, you’ll miss the beauty of the train’s passengers and scenery.

    So, I’ve been doing it– living inside each moment, proud to be noticing a sidewalk’s graffiti rather than worrying whether a cab will ever come.
    But the moments have tricked me! Jerks. They piled up, fighting for my attention, attacking me with French pastries and wine and late night conversations and more French pastries.
    And now, all of a sudden, the moment is here. The moment where I get on a plane and return to my own country. That moment has surprised me, and I don’t like it. I’m not ready.
    “Go away!” I scream.
    But the moment is still here. I am on a train to the airport and a man with a wireless credit card machine is yelling at me for not having a ticket.
    “Go away!” I scream again.
    I close my eyes, but when I open he’s still there! And I’m still on the way to the airport. Merde.
    “Merde!” I yell at him. “There were no signs about a ticket so I’m not paying you fifty euros. Go away.”
    I close my eyes again. Open. Still there. Still on way to plane.
    “Go make some signs,” I yell. I do not like this moment.
    Catalina cannot control laughter as she pays my fine for me. She assures me that the mean fine man will go immediately to his home where he stores extra poster board and will cut out some arrows to make signs.
    I still hate the moment. I am not living in it. I refuse.
    Alas, I find myself at the airline counter. They ask me thousands of questions. They don’t understand why I was in a Muslim country for a month. They think I’m a terrorist. They ask me why I keep closing my eyes and mumbling about signs.
    I prove that I am just a traveler by writing down my email and blog address. All you terrorists out there: just get a blog and you’ll get through customs.
    I guess I get on the plane but I don’t remember because I refused to live in that moment.


    Whose face fits in such a large hole? The French really have a problem with signs.

  • MEDiterranean MEN

    Many moons ago, I decided to do a charity walk for AIDS in NYC. I couldn’t get a friend to join me, so I made the trek alone. I wasn’t alone for very long. Almost immediately, a suave gentleman had pulled up beside me. He asked many questions and proved to be a great listener. We walked the whole of Manhattan together, and I thought perhaps I would see him again. However, as soon as we crossed the finish, he seemed rushed…
    “Hurry, gimme your number! I’ll call you.”
    He didn’t have a phone and scurried to find a paper and pen. His hair was ruffling from his staccato movements.
    “Sorry! I gotta run. They’re waiting for me.”
    He pointed to an open van nearby. It was a prison van.

    A prison van.

    The charity walk had been part of his community service. He called several times from a jail pay phone. I didn’t answer.

    This was what they call in the movies foreshadowing. Since Jail Man, I have had sore luck with the ability to tell whether a prospective mate is really a catch or just a charming con man.

    This trip has thankfully put dating on my back burner. Who’s got time to worry about men or mascara when there’s a Laos jungle to explore or a Malaysian turtle to chase? I had taken a vow of celibacy before leaving anyway, sure that travel adventures would take precedence.
    But now that I find myself in the West, the wool over my man-hunting eyes has been lifted.

    Enter Massimo, a true Italian Stallion. Lounging on the pokey rocks of Nice, he wriggled his towel close to mine and asked my name. I am sure a flush returned to my cheeks after nine months flirt free (except for that one time in Laos but that’s a secret and that other time in India but that doesn’t count). We spoke in a funny language: 1/3 English, 1/3 Spanish, and 1/3 Italian. Our googly eyes withstood the fumbling for words. He added me to his Facebook right there on the beach. Facebook on the beach should have been a clue, but again… I don’t see those. He asked me out that evening, and I knew that I still had it. Oh yeah.

    Cata and I strolled along the Nice boardwalk to our tiny hotel. She got in the shower, and I couldn’t resist the urge to plug into technology. (My old ways are streaming back so quickly.) I immediately clicked on Massimo’s profile and found 120 shirtless images of the man. One hundred twenty. All shirtless. Sigh. I think I’d rather date a prisoner. As long as he’s in there for tax fraud or impersonation of an officer.

    I stole some photos to share with you. I’m positive Massimo doesn’t mind.



  • But, sir, I’m a big deal in Asia.

    I just spent months feeling like a VIP. In Asia, those in the tourist industry know how to fluff you up, make you feel like a celebrity, and treat you as if you don’t smell like someone who has been carrying her life around in a moldy, airless pack. I never looked at the prices in restaurants. I tipped as if I were Mr. Drummond. I haggled as if I had experience buying yachts.

    And now those days are over.

    Catalina and I arrived in Monaco and at the same time departed from everything we’d ever known. There’s an invisible curtain you pass through when you debark the train. No signs. No warnings. Just a feeling as if you’ve stepped into somewhere else.

    And that it is– a place like no other. Monaco is one of the three smallest countries in the world. It’s 2km squared and takes 56 minutes to walk from end to end. The capital is the only city, which is also called Monaco (so uncreative). They still have a royal family, but I sort of wonder if they can take themselves seriously. “Get off my 2-kilometer kingdom!” Since it’s a tax haven (read: no income tax), 84% of the population is wealthy foreigners. But I’m not talkin’ wealthy as in I-make-six-figures-and-drive-a-Beamer wealthy. I’m talkin’ I-have-a-bathroom-attendant-at-home wealthy.

    Before we figured this out, we skipped in awe past the yachts to a boutique hotel with a splendid view of the turquoise waves slapping the rocks below. Sweat matting our uncoiffed manes to our necks, we decided to get a cold beverage and enjoy the view.

    Minute one: “This is a perfect table! What a view!”

    Minute ten: Waiter emerges. “Excuse me ladies, would you mind sitting over here? Those tables are reserved for our guests.”

    Minute ten: “How did he know we’re not guests?”

    Minute twelve: “Is that a misprint or is it really $20 for a Coke?”

    Minute thirteen: “Cokes are really twenty dollars. Holy mackerel.”

    Minutes fifteen: We slink silently out of the place.

    And so, fifteen minutes after arrival in Monaco, the VIP status incurred in Asia jumped into the sea, never to be seen again. At first we made ourselves feel better. “Well, one day we’ll be sailing to Monaco on our yachts.” “Yeah, one day that waiter is going to work at my mansion.” “One day, I’m gonna poo money.” “Yeah, me too.”

    But then we realized we would never ever have a yacht. One, the upkeep is horrible. Seems like you not only have to buy a whole yacht when you live in Moncaco, but you also have to buy a matching welcome mat to go along. And that’s just too much trouble. Plus, you have to staff the entire thing so that you can get the hot tub bubbling and an omelette brewing on the count of un-deux-trois. It would be quite a debacle interviewing all those applicants.

    But the main reason I would never own a yacht would be my conscience. How could you have so many lavish accoutrement when you know there are Indians covered in flies on the floors of train stations? I’d much rather give loans to poor people who could then start businesses. Or figure out how to use it to make the most people happy.
    And then, you know, just rent a yacht when I need one.


    Not only do you have to get a matching mat, you have to wear penny loafers.


    Even the bathroom signs in Monaco are more fashionable than I am. And wear berets!

    These gelatos were $1200.

  • Berets: true! Body odor: false!


    Stereotypes. They’re little bastards. They creep around inside your mind waiting…. just waiting for the exact moment, the moment you’re in a bar and a guy wearing a ZBT fraternity hat approaches. That’s when they run berzerk inside your head and scream so loudly that your regular thoughts don’t have a chance.

    “He’s a fraternity loser,” one yells. “He probably still sleeps in a bunk bed. He only drinks beer upside down from a keg. He tries to convince girls not to wear condoms. His room is lit by blacklight. He still gets an allowance from his parents.”

    You don’t realize it, but you listen! Then you tell the ZBT enthusiast that you’re just not interested. And the guy walks away, itching under the cap he borrowed from a friend because he got a bad haircut. He doesn’t even know what ZBT is. He went to Cambridge.

    But the stereotypes rejoice. Wahoo!!! Some retreat to celebrate while others stay vigilant, waiting for a Mexican guy wearing black to walk behind you on the street at 3 am.

    The only antidote to these fuckers is awareness. Once you hear them jostling around inside, you must make an effort to quiet them. Not a physical effort because this is all just a metaphor and you would look ridiculous.

    The point is, I knew all about these bitches and was aware they’d be trying to take me down in France. Everyone had given them ammunition: “The French are so rude….They stink….They won’t help you unless you speak French.”

    So I crept into France fully alert. To my surprise, I found that many of the stereotypes were true! Fortunately, none of the negative ones. I only found perfectly perfumed citizens who dropped everything to point me in the right directions. Most were the opposite of rude.

    But the visuals fit flawlessly into the molds in my head: There are hand-crafted cheeses and tiny glasses of Bordeaux served in cute little cafes on every corner. Old men walk through cobblestone corridors with baguettes. Some even ride bicycles and carry the loaves in their front baskets! The croissants are these achingly crispy puffs of puff. The bakeries waft the sweet smell of fruit tarts, and the women at their registers sing out ‘Merci” every few minutes. Exquisitely fashionable men talk art as they sip café-au-laits with their friends. Shop windows are wonderfully crafted fashion editorials. Little kids wear tiny trench coats and say in tiny voices, ‘Mama! S’il vous plait.” And the best, the most wonderfully Parisian element which I thought existed in only the minds of stereotypes: the beret. It’s alive and well and sits atop heads of women and children, and of course– painters! France is exactly as splendid as I’d imagined.

    When you’re in a foreign land, your ear picks up English like a trained hound. So, inevitably, I did hear some Americans talking.
    “What’s the best part of your France trip?”
    “Meeting other Americans who aren’t as rude as the French.”
    Eruption of laughter.

    Those people let the stereotypes have their way with them. What a shame. How amazing it is when you stop listening to those jerky voices and experience what is really in front of you.

    Bordeaux! At noon! Cheaper than water.

    Maybe it works for the French, but it made us both look like my uncle Edmond.

    A beret-clad street artist! How wonderf— waaait a minute. He’s flipping me off. Maybe the French are rude.

  • Hold the mustard s’il vous plaît

    On our overnight bus from Barcelona into France, Catalina and I made a list of all the words we know in French:
    Sacre (sacred), bleu (blue), s’il vous plaît (please), chapeau (hat), crepe (crepe), un-deux-trois (123), singe (monkey), Perrier (Perrier).

    Looks like we’ll only be able to politely order one, two, or three crepes filled with sacred blue monkeys wearing hats. We might gain weight.

    Le singe bleu: “See what I’ll do to you next time you try to put me in a crepe? And no hats either. I told you I’m not a hat monkey. They make my ears look big.”