Dogs in cafés.
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an illustrated journey of an american in paris
Speaking of that little Eiffel Tower notebook, I recently rediscovered it while unpacking our new place. Like rereading any record of angstier years, I’ve needed to take a deep breath and forgive myself before looking back on my original thoughts on French guys and macarons. The shame! The SHAME! Although this is going to be either extremely entertaining or the most nauseating act of self indulgence ever, I thought I would share a few tantalizing and/or sickening reflections from my one-way flight to Paris and a live running commentary…
July 28th, 2008
“I’m ready to get this show on the road! Of course, I’m nervous. (translation: what do I need to do to get this plane to turn around?) There really is no rhyme or reason to this adventure (Except for exploiting my youthful metabolism with culinary explorations in gourmandise) . Instead of living vicariously through Audrey Hepburn or buying other people Eiffel Tower knickknacks inspired by dream-inducing cities, (By the way Carol, thanks for the journal!) I decided to do it for myself (Oh shit!). When I tell people about my adventure, I get squeals of jealous joy especially from those belonging to the female gender. (Some things haven’t changed) Much of these squeals of joy are followed with the assumption that I will marry a French dude and stay forever (Sweet foreshadowing, sweet irony). But all I can think about is how badly I want a Diet Coke right now (Baby child, how American you once were! Now I only drink red wine ’cause that’s far Frenchier). If only that punk-ass brainiac on Oprah didn’t have to drop the bomb about how unsanitary airplane ice cubes are. (Good news, I’m still cynical! And I still always regret watching Oprah) I don’t really know what to expect from this year. (Or four) I hope to learn French. (‘Voulez–vous coucher avec moi ce soir’ was not the best start) I hope to pick up journaling again. (ex: Dear Diary, let me tell you all about my first French French kiss. Cue in nausea.) Geez, I cannot even imagine blogging. I can only imagine the pressure! (4 watercolored posts a week? Are you crazy?) I worry enough that people don’t understand the irony of my Facebook profile, let alone my actual thoughts! (And we are vomiting) Excellent, just timed my nap perfectly to catch the beverage cart!”