Oui, Oui Paris V

I was hungry so I scanned around to spot a good place to eat. There was a dishevelled looking man sitting at the table in a nearby restaurant, smoking and writing furiously in his well thumbed notebook. Probably a philosopher. Or a writer.

"Look."; I said to The Husband: "He's clearly French. It really doesn't get more French than that. Let's eat here."

"No. It looks empty. I want to eat there."; he said pointing at another place.

"I'm not sitting with the bloody English. I came all the way to France to sit with the French."; I protested.

"But it's a mix of French and English. The place looks good. Come on."

"Oh, OK then."

We sat at the table. There was a group of French youths to the right of us having a philosophical and cultured conversation about Judaism and war. 

"If that was British "yoof" they would be discussing the love life of Z list celebrities. I just love how the French don't do frivolous conversations."

"Yes, yes....let's order already."; The Husband was getting impatient.

The menu was in French.

To the left of us a family of British tourists was painstakingly translating every single item on the menu via their smartphone apps. 

"I'm not doing THAT."; I announced: "It's retarded. We should just order randomly and be surprised."

"What if we order snails? Or frogs?"; said The Husband alarmed.

"We won't."; I assured him.: "I do have basic French, you know."

I beckoned the waiter over and pointed a few items on the menu...soup, polenta and a mysterious meat. 

"I think it's beef.", I said to The Husband reassuringly.

The Brits to the left of us finally finished their 3 hour translation of every single item on the menu and made a daring order of  3 sandwiches (French: LE sandwich).

I rolled my eyes feeling all superior and pleased with myself. Our order is bound to be amazing.

The waiter was smoking in front of the restaurant not giving a flying French f**k, but he eventually brought our food.

I looked at it suspiciously.

"Oh dear, this is not beef. It's...um....it's.....veal.; I was horrified: "We're eating BABY cows!!!! BABY f***ing cows!!!!!!!!"

"Well, better eat it now, otherwise it died in vain. So much for your French, eh?", said The Husband.

 

 

Oui, Oui Paris IV

The Husband and I made our way to the local cafe where bemoustachioed hipster bloke was serving coffee and croissants. Or so we thought.

"Well, we have coffee, but you can't have croissants. The kitchen opens at noon."; he informed us.

It was clear that half of Paris was still nursing their midweek hangovers and couldn't be bothered to get up while the other half did get up, but somewhat begrudgingly, of course.

"Well, we can have coffee here and then go to Angelina's for cakes and croissants. And hot chocolate."; I suggested.

"Are you sure you can cope with all those sugars and carbs you have planned for yourself?"; said the ever so helpful Husband.

"Ah, but of course."

The queue in "Angelina" was long and the service, once you finally made it inside, was brisk.

A very stern and efficient waitress showed us to our table, plonked the menus in front of us and then STRONGLY suggested that we really should have hot chocolate and mont blanc; "House specialty!!!!" 

Being a lover of chestnuts and hot chocolate I followed her order to a tee. Not so The Husband. He actually perused the menu and took some time placing his order. The waitress looked extremely displeased. She clearly wanted us to order what she suggested. 

After bringing our orders, she plonked a Brazilian couple on a table next to us.

"French or English?", she enquired of them.

They spoke neither.

"Good Lord, they're gonna be in trouble with that waitress. They won't even know what hit them. Help them, help them."; I asked of The Husband.

But it was too late. With one skilled swipe of the hand (or should I say paw?), the Gestapo waitress whipped the menus out of their hands and presented them with one hot chocolate each. The Brazilians sat there looking confused.

"They didn't even get an option of mont blanc. Those poor bastards."; I concluded.

 

 

Oui, Oui Paris III

 

I opened the hotel window curtains.  It was raining heavily outside and the day looked miserable.

"I know, let's go to Louvre."; I said.

"Let's. We'll become more cultured."; said The Husband.

"Indeed."

On the way there, we noticed most of the shops are closed or opening very late. 

"Oh, it must be a national holiday."

Once we got to the Louvre, we asked the lady selling the tickets.

"Oh, mais non!", said the lady.

"Oh, so the fuckers are just lazy and stubbornly French. They can't be bothered to work. Fancy that."; I thought.

 

Louvre was full of sculptures taking selfies, sculptures concerned about the size and shape of their ding-a-longs and so on.

I was admiring one such exhibit when all of a sudden I heard The Husband exclaim: "Look at that Brazilian ass!".

I looked at the sculpture I was observing a bit closer. No, it didn't have a Brazilian ass.

Then I saw a girl pass by. She did have a Brazilian ass and sure enough, she was Brazilian.

"You have no shame."; I said to The Husband.

He pretended not to hear me.

We made our way to Mona Lisa. The area immediately in front of the painting looked like the giant fight was going to break out any minute now. People pushing and shoving and all of them taking selfies with Miss Lisa. 

"Do you know what's a selfie?"; asked The Husband unexpectedly and suddenly.

"Doh. Is Pope a catholic?"; I looked at him incredulously.

"I only recently found out about them. Shall we take some selfies?"; said he in all seriousness.

"No. I'm not taking selfies with Mona Lisa and these wild hordes. It's beneath me.".

I marched on towards Dutch masters and he followed.

 

"I need to go to toilet"

"Well, go then. You don't need to announce it."; said The Husband.

The toilet was shut.

"FERME!!!!"; barked the woman guarding the toilet in French.

"I'm beginning to think their favourite word is ferme (closed)."; I said to the Husband.

"Well, they're French. They open and close stuff individually and at random. Or maybe they're all just hungover from all the wine they guzzled the night before. Who knows. After all, they're FRENCH!"; concluded The Husband.  

I wore:

Bag: Rebecca Minkoff

Trainers: Nike

Leather jacket: River Island

Jeans: Mango

Tee: Pop Cph