Parliamo Italiano!

Oggi, adesso in fatto, vado a "Tuscan Market," un piccolino ristorante Fiorentino/Toscano che vende panini e insalate squisiti, per fare domanda di un lavoro. Questo post esiste per mettermi nella moda italiana, perche il padrone è Italiano lui stesso, di Firenze in fatto - sigh! - e perche ho dimenticato troppo...TUTTO, persino... Buona fortuna a me...io suck at italiano. io fail.


Basically: is this story good?

I want to submit a story of my experiences abroad to a travel website: is this one good? I think I'm going to keep writing stories like this until I run out of memories (as if that'll ever happen). Which is why I'll tentatively entitle this one:

It Was a One-Time Thing: Paris Happenings, Part I

In Paris, wine is both the go-to consumable for a momentous occasion and a momentous occasion itself. Parisians are existentialists who profit from their place in the present, consistently creating their own meanings, particularly when happening upon those "one time only" specials that arrive so often in Paris.

The first of these that I experienced occurred in a café I happened upon alone while wandering around Saint Germain, a left bank neighborhood known for its simultaneously lively and intimate feel. Although I didn't expect to interact with anyone that evening, I would, as it were, be toasting to post-impressionism and life with one Floriane, a young artist whom I'd never met before, and would never meet again.

She had waved me to her table, asking plainly what I wanted her to tell me about Paris. "Tout," I admitted. She grinned and nodded, pouring me a glass of ruby-red Hermitage.

"First you must know that there are many people who live in Paris, and always have, and don't like it," she told me, "but you must ignore them. There's no reason you should not love Paris and no reason these people shouldn't either. I was born here, and for me it's still the most wonderful place in the world." Her delicate gallic pronunciations were floating up to the ceiling like little butterflies.

Floriane had dubbed Paris a "place" rather than a city, and appropriately: "city" is just a political label for a place, but a place itself is much more. It could be anything to anybody, and to me, this place - this Paris - was everything. It was suddenly alive and essential as a surface beneath my feet. We discussed this romantic notion for what seemed like hours, and I just beamed helplessly: the idea that there existed people who shared my verve for Paris made my heart swell. Presently Floriane raised her glass: 'Au vin! Aux amis! A...Paul Sérusier!' And I raised mine. (Sérusier? Pourquoi pas.) It wasn't until I knocked my glass over in a paroxysm of laughter that I came out of my euphoric and (almost literally) wine-soaked reverie. This was no cliché Parisian fantasy. This was life.

Floriane left the café, and my acquaintance, as suddenly as she'd entered. We hadn't so much as swapped addresses, but something told me we weren't meant to. I finished my wine and left, enlightened and exhausted all at once. Outside, Saint Germain's fluorescent eyes were shutting along with mine.

There's a warm, existential feeling that comes from drinking red wine; the kind we experience when we are falling in love, fighting for love. Maybe its sanguine nature spurs it to find its way into our veins and to the heart, changing our time signatures and reminding us that we are alive. This must be why Paris has undergone so much revolution throughout its life. The beating of the battle drums in the love movement that is a Paris revolution echoes the heartbeat of its vinous people, a people who live for the moment.

Under a blue moon that evening, in a café inhabited by phantom barricades, revolutionaries, and lovers, I was alive for this moment: the company, the color, the french flowing as purposefully as the wine. And especially for Paris, inconstant Paris, where every moment is a revolution. Where things happen only once and last in us forever.


g2g pp brb

I sometimes wonder how much stronger and finer my posterior would be if my mommy had trained me early on to squat and hover over public toilets, rather than to use toilet paper or a seat cover in order to sit down and pee. Would I be able to ride my bike more easily today, without huffing and puffing and feeling like I got kicked in the ass by a bronco later on? Would more skeezeballs "discreetly" spank me at Foxz Tavern on Karaoke night? You know what, I'm going to blame the fact that I always placed like 5th out of 6 in the 100 yard dash at my high school track meets on years wasted NOT toning my ass by doing the "public peeing exercises" normal girls were taught to do from the time they could reach the seat. I bet Jessica Alba's ass is the perfect way it is mostly because of the way she uses public johns. Huh. Well, better late than never, guess I'll start trying to mimic her there. I already drank a water bottle and a full mug of Moroccan Mint green tea today, so I'm sure I'll get lots of practice in.