There’s no skyline here, no tall shiny modern structures; I wonder if any other major city in the world can say that. Everything cuts off at about eight stories. The whole city was rebuilt from scratch around 1860,* sparing only some cultural or religious heritage buildings - cathedrals and the like - so it’s all of a piece, like it or not. I've heard there's some sort of latticed metal contrivance to the southwest that was once the tallest human artifact, but I haven't actually seen it.
In Paris there are no big humping SUVS. Cars park on three or four-way intersections by nosing up to the corner. Motorbikes park on the sidewalk in clusters, out of foot traffic. Most are scooters.
Not one Sports Utility Vehicle. Is there an easier way to be happy? It’s like the Anti-Texas.
On the other hand, restaurants - the ubiquitous corner bistro/cafe type - often don’t have menus. You have to work off the chalk boards, some of which will be for drinks, others breakfast, others lunch, others...well, I don’t know, I haven’t learned how to decode them yet. Then again, you don't have to tip. There's peace of mind.
Was on the metro, trying to figure what to say about French men, studying the crowd, including this dude in front of me all in blue, with his blue pointy shoes, spiked synthetic pants, v-neck sweatshirt, shapeless knit cardigan, when it came to me that the first thing you can say is that compared to us - to the theoretically diverse, open and eccentric SF Bay, there is no center to Paris fashions. Guys dress like they’re the last man on earth. Let’s say that that characterization doesn’t exactly nail it; this you can quantify; guys in the US, in the Bay Area, have a much narrower range of dress. And each element is symbolic of something. Here, these French mecs, they have more individuality. It’s not that they come on outrageous - we’d to that here, as a statement of how far we’re into whichever tribe we wish to represent, or more accurately, we wish to represent us. In Paris, they just don’t care.They might as well be in their basement drinking Artois and watching some weird European sport.
The women are prettier. I know that's a truism, but there it is. I don’t know how they do it - think they just know how to hold their face, to move. Much, much less makeup. Really gracefully sexy clothes without showing much skin; flippy little lace skirts over black tights. Sorry ladies, it’s true. Home, I spot a truly beautiful woman once every couple of years; a really pretty one a few times a year. Here, I’ve seen three or four beautiful women in seven days, and fifteen or twenty - maybe more - really lovely chicks. I say again, I don’t know how they do it. If I figure it out I’ll let you know.
The Parisians don't run, that is, jog. I've seen maybe two joggers in the eight days I've been here. If they don't run, and they eat all that cheese, how come they're not fat? I've seen fewer fatties here than cowboy hats. Really.
In Paris they don't say "oui" like "we," it's more like "way." I'm no doubt missing the nuances, but of course, they would have their own way - oui - of proving that they're not from the provinces.
Anyoui, I'm going to try this Roquefort - ohhhhhh - not now, Angelique, you're interrupting the cheese - then see if any of those pix will do the job.
Man, trying to get cell pix on the metro, I don't know how to do that - I felt like a pervert or a thief, and people knew what I was doing. Uncomfortable. Next time I'll wait until there's one good shot and just stand and take the fucker, instead of surreptitiously chipping at it.
Alright. I'm going to have to subject you to an unfortunate procedure. Since I couldn't get one good photo to post, I'm going to have to post three or four poor ones, with captions. Brace yourself.
Nah, I'm better than that. Yet...okay. You get two blurry scarf pix. In truth, the French are no blurrier than anybody else, but I hadn't learned to wait for the stop to click the shutter icon. Anyway, failing all else, here are those scarves the trendy guys are wearing. And one of those puffy black plastic jackets. But these don't show the individuality I was trying to describe.
We don't crop the one below to showcase the guy in the jeans. Jeans are everywhere. We have left our mark on them for sure. On one street corner I saw two cowboy clothes stores.
If I get better photos I'll get rid of these diseased weasels.
*A prodigious wink to big sis Rhea for the history
Was on the metro, trying to figure what to say about French men, studying the crowd, including this dude in front of me all in blue, with his blue pointy shoes, spiked synthetic pants, v-neck sweatshirt, shapeless knit cardigan, when it came to me that the first thing you can say is that compared to us - to the theoretically diverse, open and eccentric SF Bay, there is no center to Paris fashions. Guys dress like they’re the last man on earth. Let’s say that that characterization doesn’t exactly nail it; this you can quantify; guys in the US, in the Bay Area, have a much narrower range of dress. And each element is symbolic of something. Here, these French mecs, they have more individuality. It’s not that they come on outrageous - we’d to that here, as a statement of how far we’re into whichever tribe we wish to represent, or more accurately, we wish to represent us. In Paris, they just don’t care.They might as well be in their basement drinking Artois and watching some weird European sport.
The women are prettier. I know that's a truism, but there it is. I don’t know how they do it - think they just know how to hold their face, to move. Much, much less makeup. Really gracefully sexy clothes without showing much skin; flippy little lace skirts over black tights. Sorry ladies, it’s true. Home, I spot a truly beautiful woman once every couple of years; a really pretty one a few times a year. Here, I’ve seen three or four beautiful women in seven days, and fifteen or twenty - maybe more - really lovely chicks. I say again, I don’t know how they do it. If I figure it out I’ll let you know.
The Parisians don't run, that is, jog. I've seen maybe two joggers in the eight days I've been here. If they don't run, and they eat all that cheese, how come they're not fat? I've seen fewer fatties here than cowboy hats. Really.
In Paris they don't say "oui" like "we," it's more like "way." I'm no doubt missing the nuances, but of course, they would have their own way - oui - of proving that they're not from the provinces.
Anyoui, I'm going to try this Roquefort - ohhhhhh - not now, Angelique, you're interrupting the cheese - then see if any of those pix will do the job.
Man, trying to get cell pix on the metro, I don't know how to do that - I felt like a pervert or a thief, and people knew what I was doing. Uncomfortable. Next time I'll wait until there's one good shot and just stand and take the fucker, instead of surreptitiously chipping at it.
Alright. I'm going to have to subject you to an unfortunate procedure. Since I couldn't get one good photo to post, I'm going to have to post three or four poor ones, with captions. Brace yourself.
Nah, I'm better than that. Yet...okay. You get two blurry scarf pix. In truth, the French are no blurrier than anybody else, but I hadn't learned to wait for the stop to click the shutter icon. Anyway, failing all else, here are those scarves the trendy guys are wearing. And one of those puffy black plastic jackets. But these don't show the individuality I was trying to describe.
If I get better photos I'll get rid of these diseased weasels.
*A prodigious wink to big sis Rhea for the history
