Paris Bites

Ok, obviously my public comments have attracted some attention, and not just from Barton Gamber, Defender of All Things British.

[Dude, nothing can match a cup of English tea and shortbread. Nothing, dude.]

I know my thoughts have been read at the top levels of Paris government, because a campaign has begun to make me leave. How has this been accomplished? Consider these facts:

1. This morning, no sooner did I jauntily say 'These stairs are slippery!!' than I did fall about ten steps, down down down. On my booty. I have a bruise that would make certain people feel very frisky. You know who you are.

2. At lunch

[Digression: if you really want to see men eat, I suggest lunch near the Bourse in Paris. These are stock brokers, bankers, etc. I think they must do very well, because they seem to have a spirit of celebration. Witness the table of 3 who consumed a 5 course lunch plus beer, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of champagne - Moet, says Mother. Lunch was like television, except sunny, and with pudding.]

So, at lunch, I ordered an appetizer of broiled crawdads on artichoke hearts with a little veg in cream. Yurm. The waiter says to me, 'the plate is hot.' Yeah, ok. Then I reached for my knife and accidentally touched the plate. I now have a one-inch red burn to show for it. And I gasped loudly enough to attract a few stares.

What other conclusion can I draw from this, than that the city itself seeks my destruction? I have said too much, embraced it too liberally. Now, they fear I won't ever leave. The city supply of tarte au citron will never survive, so they resort to drastic measures. Zut Alors!

I have this to say to Paris: I love you anyway. Even if it's the kind of love that makes you call a hotline.