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Published: December 1st 2008
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Forgive me as I close out Paris by quoting Noel Coward, an Englishman:
I went to a marvelous party
With Nounou and Nada and Nell,
It was in the fresh air
And we went as we were
And we stayed as we were
Which was Hell.
Poor Grace started singing at midnight
And didn't stop singing till four;
We knew the excitement was bound to begin
When Laura got blind on Dubonnet and gin
And scratched her veneer with a Cartier pin,
I couldn't have liked it more.
And that pretty much sums up Paris with myself, Don and Carlton. But. As Edith Piaf rolls her Rs and makes the most of her machine-gun vibrato via iTunes, I'll toss down a few remaining bon mots.
For starters, life in SF is in a bit of a shit heap, if you'll pardon my French. But it is. Hopefully it will improve shortly. But until then, and while Rome burns, I'm in Paris fiddling as hard as I can. I can't say it could have come at a better time. It simply couldn't. To be halfway across the globe with my two closest friends discovering another corner of the world
that gets me ... and that I get in return ... is a gift you just can't quite explain when you've been in six months of never-ending and never-positive change.
All the same, you've dropped by to hear of my travels.
I've no complaints with Paris. And that usually makes for boring blogging from your favorite tap dancer. I've waxed far more poetic this round than ever before. Perhaps you'll forgive an old guy in love with an old lady.
But just in case you've been needing a moment of vitriol to make certain it's really Kenneth over here, I've saved at least a touch of it for a parting shot.
My issue, however, isn't with Paris. It's with Americans ... and the part we play in the death of one of Paris' more lovely areas ... or at least what I'd imagine was quite spectacular until we f'd the whole thing up.
The Champs-Elysee is morts, mon ami. Honestly. And its blood is on our hands.
Mon dieu, you say! I know. It saddens me, too.
Imagine my horror as I wrapped my rain jacket around myself, pulled my cap down around
my ears as tightly as possible and braved a cold, bone-chilling rain to walk the Champs-Elysee only to find it's been sold off to Disney, McDonald's and countless other chains.
I suppose the true pleasure is that the rest of Paris hasn't been. But is it only a matter of time? Is this the last time that I'll be here sans Oeuf McMuffins? It's possible.
So to save myself that fate, I put out the following appeal to all American travelers:
Honestly, people. If your idea of travel is collecting t-shirts from Hard Rock Cafes, and your only acceptable meal overseas is from the Cheesecake Factory, I beseech you ... implore you ... nay, outright demand ... that you stay home. Just save the money and the rest of us the trouble.
You're not made for the international stage if you can't face the possibility that life outside your four regular walls might expose you to ... oh ... say ... something you don't normally see outside your four regular walls.
I mean, it puzzles me. If the only existence you're comfortable with is the one in which you currently exist, then why exist at
all?
You can't walk down a street in Paris and get excited about trying to pronounce something on a menu you haven't seen a thousand times before? You can't sit down in a cafe and figure out that jambon au frommage is ham with cheese? Seriously. Watch a couple of months of Julia Child on PBS and run wild.
I'm begging you. I'm on my knees here.
One of the great pleasures ... oh, to hell with that ... one of the great privileges of travel is the chance that you'll see not only what sets us apart but also what unites us. That all humans take a look at what's around them, spread their arms as wide as possible and do the best they can with what they have. And now and then, they're gracious enough to let us be part of that. They'll open their doors and their cafes and their bars and their borders and their hopes and their frailties up for our consideration.
And what do you do to thank them for it? You get your passport stamped, and you go to McDonald's.
Oh, God. I can't take it. I simply
can't.
They're so happy to see us ... and let's face it ... and who can blame them? ... to see our money ... that they cater to our white bread whims. And up pops McDonald's on the Champs-Elysee. Then the Disney Store creeps in. Before you know it, it's as distinctive as Toledo. And I think we all know that's not all so distinctive.
Anyone who's seen the backseat of my car knows I've no objection to McDonald's. The bags back there often outnumber the cup holders. But. That's my American prerogative while inhabiting America.
But what have I consumed in Paris? Baguettes. Croissants. Rouelle Agneau. (Lamb. And I thought "rouelle" probably meant "roulade" or "roll." Nope. It was shank in a wine/demiglace sauce that made me so intensely happy, I could only smile and reach for more baguette to sop it up.)
If I hadn't just taken a shot at it, I'd never have had the experience. And if it had been awful? If Rouelle Agnea was lambs' brains? Well, actually, I'd have eaten that, too. You think restaurants serve food that kills people? How do they stay in business? But I'm like that.
You don't have to be. But please. Please, America. Keep yer mits off the Champs. Order off the menu. Get off the beaten path.
Your life. My life. Everyone's life will be all the better for it. I promise. Edith Piaf promises. And she's dead. So now you know it's serious.
Okay. Enough.
As the lights dim on this trip, the three of us sat in a cafe drinking red wine that we'd never had before ... it was excellent ... and started dreaming of where we'd conquer next.
My hand to Jesus if there's a McDonald's or a Disney Store there, you'll have me to answer to. And don't think for a second I won't call you on it. I think we know I will. And it ain't gonna be pretty if I'm disappointed in you again.
I have to pack. It's dark. And this is the city of lights. I think it's fitting that I leave you with pictures of Paris at night. It's not called the City of Lights for nothin', kids.
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Michael
non-member comment
Thank you!
Dear heart, You must travel more just so I can read your TravelBlog! But then I'd see even less of you, if that's possible. Hmmm... OK, I've got it! Travel more, but when you're in San Francisco we hang out more! Sound good? I adore you and I miss you! (And I know it takes two to ignore each other. My apologies!) xoxo! Michael PS: I'm wearing a t-shirt today that says, "Moi, je veux te dire que je ne te quitterai jamais. Et puis, si tu es triste, je pourrais toujours te donner un peu d'alcool pour te rechauffer le couer. xo" Basically this means that I'll be there for you always. And I'll get you drunk when you're sad. I don't speak French, but I love the message! mwh