Gay Paris but er, less of the gay
Well, so far I hadn’t encountered any of the preconceived notions of France that I had expected to and I was a little disappointed.
Where the hell were the onion salesmen on rusty bikes with the kind of toughened leather saddle that makes you walk like John Wayne? Where were the mime artists looking befuddled as they come across invisible walls? Where were the elegant, aristocratic, high heeled, sultry Parisian ladies, clad in clingy silk dresses, warbling erotically charged French fuck-lullabies as they send smoke rings spiralling into the air from cigarettes ensconced in gold, diamond encrusted holders?
Where the hell was any sign of France other than the language, fields of grapes and signs for Stella Artois? Beats the hell out of me but I was sure that I would find them in Paris.
Yeah right (I chuckle now in hindsight), I would find them and a whole host of other shit that I hadn’t bargained for, but hell, what’s new when you’re travelling with me?
You see, that’s the essence of travel joy, the new and unexpected experiences that jump out at you and take a big mouthful of arse in their slavering jaws. What would be the point of removing yourself from everything that keeps you sane if you were not going to be the recipient of epiphany after epiphany on social, physical and spiritual fronts?
None, none at all but I just wish that my epiphanies didn’t have to be so damned painful.
However, once more I digress so I’ll get onto the more pressing matters of actually telling you about my experiences as a tourist in Paris before I relate to you the perils of getting into a fist fight with a pimp in a darkened back alley as you try to defend a whore who he’s currently beating the shit out of.
Anyway, I found that when I entered the city of Paris I was entering it once again suffused with that sense of naivet� you get when you’ve been out of the big city vibe for as long as I had.
