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HIYLH -- Live from Paris!
While Paris is the most beautiful city in the world, and the French cuisine is exquisite and unrivaled, the French are very inefficient. For example, it takes at least 2 and often 3 of them walking abreast of each other (together with a Papillion, or sometimes, a ferret) to cover every square inch of sidewalk, whereas an American can get the job done with just one person.
Another example: Turning over tables at a restaurant. Any American waiter or waitress, even a dim-witted one, knows that the way to be rid of a clueless hanger-on is to slap the bill down next to the plate while the diner’s mouth is full of Apple Pie and ice cream and to say with faux patience: “I’ll take that whenever you’re ready, no rush” (as if), and then to disappear into the kitchen pretending to pick up a food order for someone else before the customer can ask for another glass of (free) ice water.
A French waiter, on the other hand, will refuse --absolutely refuse -- to bring the check (unless it is requested), and is prepared to wait to be asked until hell freezes over (as Adlai Stevenson once famously told his Soviet counterpart at the United Nations). Thus do many American tourists and French waiters play a game of chicken, each determined to see who will crack first. For the Americans, it is always a losing proposition. They may as well bring sleeping bags and camp out under the table all night long to test the waiter’s resolve. No contest. In the morning, he will still be there cheerfully refusing to bring the check with single-minded determination.
No one shows more fidelity to rules of conduct than the French, especially the waiters. They are the first line of defense in keeping the riff-raff out of inappropriate sections of cafes. Without their eagle-eyed ability to steer the lunch crowd away from the dinner section, the Earth would stop rotating on its axis.
They say that Paris is the City of Lovers. It is true that you can find a lover here and there having intercourse in the Bois de Boulogne while the old-timers play a discreet game of boules in the background. But for every lover in Paris, there are three different kinds of pâte. Paris is, in fact, the City of Livers.
A lover without a partner is nothing more than a narcissist. Two lovers together are what the French call une narcissiste plus une. Three lovers together are what the French call une narcissiste plus un, avec foie gras. And so on. French is truly the language of romance.
What, in any other city would be a grand monument and the apex of civic pride, in Paris is nothing more than the headquarters of the sewer commission, formerly the over-the-top palace of some 18th century inbred royal who lost his head in the Revolution. The sublime preserved architecture of the city, as it happens, is nothing short of a conspiracy to encourage Parisians to visit the Registry of Motor Vehicles every once in a while to renew their registration in person.
The French have a few laws that North Americans will find somewhat Byzantine (although, in point of fact, they are Parisian). For example, air conditioning is illegal.
Also, any restaurateur caught doling out an ice cube to a tourist can be fined 75 Euros for the first offense, and risk the loss of a Michelin star for subsequent offenses. The Parisians have a saying: “When in Rome, get an ice cube if it’s so damn important to you to act like a rube; when in Paris, just deal with it. This is how we roll over here.” This cannot be reproduced in the original French, as it would take up three pages. The French, as we have noted, are impractical.
Parisians enjoy life to the fullest. When they are not on strike, they are watching a big screen television and cheering mightily as the English soccer team gets the shit kicked out of them by the Germans. This is particularly satisfying to the Parisians, who like to lie on the grass in one of the City’s many glorious parks, smoke cigarettes, and talk about how much they hate the English but love French cinema (although they find the subtitles pretty annoying and quite superfluous).
The Luxembourg Gardens, famous for beauty and charm, is one such park. Here, one can stroll among manicured lawns, hedges, statuary, and flowers, or enjoy a repast in one of the well-appointed cafes or snack bars.
Less well-known is the Adopt-a-Space in the South Corner of the gardens, originally sponsored by Viscount Louie XXII of Roche Petite. His penchant for always ordering a double portion of brioche at breakfast earned him the nom de plume: “Louie Louie.” He was later immortalized in a song of the same name by bluesman Richard Berry.
Oddly, there are no statues of Louie Louie in the Luxembourg. There is, however, a little oil painting of Aristotle contemplating the bust of Dolly Parton by an anonymous artiste. It is unsigned (as is commonplace for anonymous works) and probably worth a pretty penny on eBay.
The Cluny Museum is near the Luxembourg Gardens. It houses the world-famous medieval tapestry series of the Lady and the Unicorn. If you go, please don’t ask to see the George Clooney room. It was funny the first 20 times that we did so, but the gag has outlived its welcome at the Cluny, as did we.
The formal garden at the Rodin Museum is so magical that there are no words to describe it, except for “magical.” Added bonus: If you look at some of the sculptures by Rodin (which is, after all, the purpose of the museum), you can see how fat Honoré de Balzac was. Who knew?
Paris has so many first class museums that you would have to be perpetually on strike in order to have enough time to see them all, which, come to think of it…
The capital of France may be the most-visited city in the world. Rightly so, as it too expensive to live here. Ergo, it is cheaper to visit than to live here. The people who visit here would live here if they could except for two things: (1) they can’t afford it and, (2) they can’t speak French, which makes trying to get the security deposit waived a risky proposition. Don’t even talk to me about parking.
One way to avoid all the crowds of Paris during the high season is to go to Schenectady instead. It has none of the charm, food, or beauty of Paris. But you can drive there. And you can sit wherever you damn well please in a café.
While Paris is the most beautiful city in the world, and the French cuisine is exquisite and unrivaled, the French are very inefficient. For example, it takes at least 2 and often 3 of them walking abreast of each other (together with a Papillion, or sometimes, a ferret) to cover every square inch of sidewalk, whereas an American can get the job done with just one person.
Another example: Turning over tables at a restaurant. Any American waiter or waitress, even a dim-witted one, knows that the way to be rid of a clueless hanger-on is to slap the bill down next to the plate while the diner’s mouth is full of Apple Pie and ice cream and to say with faux patience: “I’ll take that whenever you’re ready, no rush” (as if), and then to disappear into the kitchen pretending to pick up a food order for someone else before the customer can ask for another glass of (free) ice water.
A French waiter, on the other hand, will refuse --absolutely refuse -- to bring the check (unless it is requested), and is prepared to wait to be asked until hell freezes over (as Adlai Stevenson once famously told his Soviet counterpart at the United Nations). Thus do many American tourists and French waiters play a game of chicken, each determined to see who will crack first. For the Americans, it is always a losing proposition. They may as well bring sleeping bags and camp out under the table all night long to test the waiter’s resolve. No contest. In the morning, he will still be there cheerfully refusing to bring the check with single-minded determination.
No one shows more fidelity to rules of conduct than the French, especially the waiters. They are the first line of defense in keeping the riff-raff out of inappropriate sections of cafes. Without their eagle-eyed ability to steer the lunch crowd away from the dinner section, the Earth would stop rotating on its axis.
They say that Paris is the City of Lovers. It is true that you can find a lover here and there having intercourse in the Bois de Boulogne while the old-timers play a discreet game of boules in the background. But for every lover in Paris, there are three different kinds of pâte. Paris is, in fact, the City of Livers.
A lover without a partner is nothing more than a narcissist. Two lovers together are what the French call une narcissiste plus une. Three lovers together are what the French call une narcissiste plus un, avec foie gras. And so on. French is truly the language of romance.
What, in any other city would be a grand monument and the apex of civic pride, in Paris is nothing more than the headquarters of the sewer commission, formerly the over-the-top palace of some 18th century inbred royal who lost his head in the Revolution. The sublime preserved architecture of the city, as it happens, is nothing short of a conspiracy to encourage Parisians to visit the Registry of Motor Vehicles every once in a while to renew their registration in person.
The French have a few laws that North Americans will find somewhat Byzantine (although, in point of fact, they are Parisian). For example, air conditioning is illegal.
Also, any restaurateur caught doling out an ice cube to a tourist can be fined 75 Euros for the first offense, and risk the loss of a Michelin star for subsequent offenses. The Parisians have a saying: “When in Rome, get an ice cube if it’s so damn important to you to act like a rube; when in Paris, just deal with it. This is how we roll over here.” This cannot be reproduced in the original French, as it would take up three pages. The French, as we have noted, are impractical.
Parisians enjoy life to the fullest. When they are not on strike, they are watching a big screen television and cheering mightily as the English soccer team gets the shit kicked out of them by the Germans. This is particularly satisfying to the Parisians, who like to lie on the grass in one of the City’s many glorious parks, smoke cigarettes, and talk about how much they hate the English but love French cinema (although they find the subtitles pretty annoying and quite superfluous).
The Luxembourg Gardens, famous for beauty and charm, is one such park. Here, one can stroll among manicured lawns, hedges, statuary, and flowers, or enjoy a repast in one of the well-appointed cafes or snack bars.
Less well-known is the Adopt-a-Space in the South Corner of the gardens, originally sponsored by Viscount Louie XXII of Roche Petite. His penchant for always ordering a double portion of brioche at breakfast earned him the nom de plume: “Louie Louie.” He was later immortalized in a song of the same name by bluesman Richard Berry.
Oddly, there are no statues of Louie Louie in the Luxembourg. There is, however, a little oil painting of Aristotle contemplating the bust of Dolly Parton by an anonymous artiste. It is unsigned (as is commonplace for anonymous works) and probably worth a pretty penny on eBay.
The Cluny Museum is near the Luxembourg Gardens. It houses the world-famous medieval tapestry series of the Lady and the Unicorn. If you go, please don’t ask to see the George Clooney room. It was funny the first 20 times that we did so, but the gag has outlived its welcome at the Cluny, as did we.
The formal garden at the Rodin Museum is so magical that there are no words to describe it, except for “magical.” Added bonus: If you look at some of the sculptures by Rodin (which is, after all, the purpose of the museum), you can see how fat Honoré de Balzac was. Who knew?
Paris has so many first class museums that you would have to be perpetually on strike in order to have enough time to see them all, which, come to think of it…
The capital of France may be the most-visited city in the world. Rightly so, as it too expensive to live here. Ergo, it is cheaper to visit than to live here. The people who visit here would live here if they could except for two things: (1) they can’t afford it and, (2) they can’t speak French, which makes trying to get the security deposit waived a risky proposition. Don’t even talk to me about parking.
One way to avoid all the crowds of Paris during the high season is to go to Schenectady instead. It has none of the charm, food, or beauty of Paris. But you can drive there. And you can sit wherever you damn well please in a café.
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