Picnics, Is NOTHING Safe from Urine Here?!

Holy Paris, Picnic Man- no wonder there are only certain patches of grass people can sit on here... no one would rent apartments in the springtime, otherwise. Living in Paris for one month now, people who are not native speakers are very impressed with my ability to comprehend and speak French, whereas French people are continuously correcting me and disgusted by my proclivity to speak in my native tongue when given the choice. None of this matters at a picnic, because we all sound a little distorted with a mouth full of bread. I have been invited to more picnics than the number of weeks I have lived here, which is really only five. However, I am coming from a place where picnics are activities only dysfunctional couples participate in to keep the guise of a loving union in tact, so actually enjoying an awkward meeting of new people collectively eating off the ground surprises me. It doesn’t surprise me as much as the aforementioned collective’s willingness to urinate in front of small children, even if the parents are there. “Just go in the bushes down there,” was the advice nonchalantly given when I asked about the nearby toilet situation. I had to clarify several times because he was talking about the bushes within, not only view, but also earshot of a crowded playground. Where I come from, you could be considered a pedophile for having a full bladder and lack of etiquette in a situation like this. You could even be sentenced up to 4 days in prison, 2 weeks if you make a kid help you, then slapped him/ her. Makes sense, why one might- why are kids the only ones who get help wiping their own asses after a solid poo? What if at my job interviews to be a nanny, I said my ambitions were to get to a place in life where I could afford to hire a small child to wipe my ass for me, for a change [takes a swig off of flask and exhales cigar smoke though nose]. What if, indeed... like candy and attention is an expense that even most underpaid janitors can’t splurge on for a luxurious little foster child.

Money is a weird mark of success, especially at a picnic. I like the idea that I could go to a picnic with the aim of impressing strangers by bringing Euros instead of refreshments. Throwing down a twenty spot, I'll say with an air of importance “my assistant didn’t stop at the store for this picnic, I clearly don’t have time to shop for these things, but I have about an hour now, so here is for my share... and a little of yours. Sorry, I don’t have anything smaller than a twenty.” I look around and nibble on some things with a disinterested investment in the ensuing conversation, but when the talking points out mustard on my chin, I immediately reach for the twenty I dropped and use it to wipe off my face. I quickly realize what I’ve done, so I apologize, explaining that “these are like paper towels in my house.” The facade would be fun, but couldn’t hold water, mainly because I wear way too much cotton to show that much pretension with any conviction in this city.

I met some great people at the picnic and I am glad I went. There was a fellow who insisted I look at 87 of his science fiction drawings, which was “fun” and I think meant to “impress”, but the best part of the interchange was when I sat down after peeing and he asked me in broken english “do you like rock and roll?” I laughed a hearty three “ha’s” before quickly asking him if he liked “Chuck Norris”, this got quite a positive response from my soon to be new friends. I asked him why he would ask me that and he explained because of my boots, tattoos and piercings, I told him if I were rock and roll, I would have pissed on those kids.

Couture And C. Norris

I want to share some of my favorite things to do in Paris... first off, eating bread, secondly, whine that I eat too much bread... also- I love botching a perfectly good conversation between two French people by saying “J’ vrais ecole demain!”

“I have class tomorrow!” If I had a helmet, I would be the happiest little project these altruistic French friends ever had. They were, no doubt, discussing their views on the election next year or the economic state and their hopes for the future when I find the slightest break to interject “I HAVE CLASS TOMORROW!” This is my contribution to intellectual conversation- my wailing inconsolable interruptions are as frequent as they are obnoxious.

However, I now have the ultimate conversation starter here, in Paris: “Est-ce que tu aime Chuck Norris?” Which directly translates to “do you like talent?” I have found that the two people asked this question have expressed great interest in art/ Texas Art Ranger. They both knew that happiness was easily available every Sunday at 2pm... if you own a television- naturally.

I am trying to work up the nerve to ask my waiter about his interest in Texas Ranger, but I haven’t even got the nerve to ask for water... it’s a very difficult word for me to pronounce here “eau”, but you ask for it like “d’eau” and it sounds like “doh!” It’s bad enough being a thirsty American, but top it off with a involuntarily Homer Simpson impression and I am a stereo-type adorned in more cotton than even a parody should be wearing.

This city is the most stylish city I have ever seen- even the waiters add elegance to their uniforms. I feel like such a slob in my puffy, blue vest and black leggings. I know that if you “own” what you wear, people will look at you like you meant to do that, but even I- the most confident person I talk to regularly- have a difficult time making this theft proof fanny pack look indigenous or even inspired by anything other than fear.

So if I am not talking, I am wearing clothes and even if I weren’t, I am a size 6 with piercings and tattoos, so there is no avoiding the obvious billboard I am for a country with such variations of class that I am automatically defensive- especially because I have an unforgivable urge to ask people about their interest in Chuck Norris. Je suis American! Bien Sur!