When I was 19 years old, I went to Paris. I did all the things you’re supposed to do when you’re in Paris – at least, all of the free things. I ate snails, I saw the Eiffel Tower, or Tour de Eiffel, if you will ( I know French things); I saw the Moulin Rouge; I visited Pierre La Chase cemetery, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Tuileries, Versailles. And I did it all while pressing through crowds of tourists, the nasal whine of over-privileged American teenagers piercing the summer haze.
But do you know what I remember most
vividly about those few days in Paris? An antique chair sitting in a shop
window in Montmartre, with a wheel of rotating artificial tongues in the seat
like an anatomical ferris wheel.
And it’s still there, friends.
Eight years later, I was in the city of
love with Buckle. We went to Versailles, ate pistachios and pretended to
appreciate history. We went to the Musée de l'Orangerie, ate ice cream and pretended to appreciate art. We went to Le Musée des Arts
Forains and rode a penny farthing
carousel.
Ours was an epic journey across Paris consuming
all foodstuffs in our path and leaving only crumbs in our bloated wake, the
last syllables of “Do you have an English menu?” still ringing in the air. If
the French call the orgasm ‘the little death,’ what is that moment of quiet
reflection after you’ve inhaled a plate
of potatoes roasted in rosemary and duck fat?
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