A few thoughts on the Parisian women. Before I came, I sort of thought I could find my own Brigitte (Yvette, Genevieve), a little amorous adventure to fill my time in the City of Lights. But after a few weeks, I feel a bit like I am perpetually standing with my nose pressed up against the window of a marvelous boulangerie, a elegant patisserie (or chocolaterie) where all types of lovely desserts are being paraded, cherry topped, chocolate bon bons, an ample Crocumbuche, a friendly Pain au Chocolat, a well aged Gateau Citron – my breath leaving steamy streaks on the window pane – but alas the door to the shop is locked, the shop hours posted in a different language, I hold no local currency. I fear that the frustration will become such that I will simply stampede through the window, a frustrated American bull stomping and clumping his vulgar way about the shop. But at least the weather is turning rainy here, so perhaps the shop windows’ shades will be drawn for the next few days … a brief respite before I continue my search for the elusive shop key.
One of my classmates in French class (Marco, and Italian working in Paris) had a very astute comment about French women. He said, “French women are beautiful, even the ugly French women are beautiful. They are better looking than the ugly women anywhere else.” And oddly, it’s true.
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