I finished off my pizza, my perfect pepperoni pineapple pizza prepared promptly in Paris by Pierre.I was eating at an outdoor table at the pizzeria because that’s what you do when you’re in Paris...you eat outside.I drank my kir and my red wine and another glass of red wine or two and started back to the hotel. The streets are crowded and on the way back, I made a couple of stops.I went to the souvenir store where I got the relatives some Eiffel Tower key chains and a French flag for me that I plan to fly out in the backyard when I get back.I keep seeing the classic French berets being sold in the stores, but I don’t see one person here actually wearing one here.I kept going and just had to stop at the local grocery store.I asked where the spirits were but the clerk didn’t speak English and I didn't want to try my luck in French, so I had to look around on my own. Lucky for me, I found them. When I got back to the hotel, it was too early to call it a night and introduce myself to the French speaking spirits, so I sat down on a bench outside. There were groups and couples and people on their phones walking by speaking French, English, and I don’t know what else. Big buses full of tourists pulling up and people getting off with big eyes. It must of been their first time here. They carried armfuls of suitcases shuffling from the bus to the front desk by baggage clerks with shiny black shoes that reflected the hotel lights. It looked like a giant airport baggage claim.
Some people were leaving, some people were arriving. Taxis gobbled up people and took them to the opera or to the theatre, or maybe just to a nice romantic dinner. Just to break up the routine, the occasional ER-ERR, ER-ERR, ER-ERR of the Paris gendarmes in their sporty little French police cars racing through the streets to the scene of the crime. Every time I hear it, I feel like I’m in a foreign film. Some kind of old spy thriller that they used to play on the late, late show. Just to play along I turn up the collar of my black trench coat and turn my head so they don’t recognize me as they go by. Ha,imagine me being wanted.I decided to crack open the bottle for a drink and just when I’ve given up all hope, I see a stylish middle aged woman walking what else?...a French poodle. The lobby is full of well dressed people. I'm sure they were all VIP’s. Every few minutes the Metro train passing by...Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack...rapidly as it rolls down the track to the station. It’s the number 6 train that takes you to The Louvre among other places and back. The train stops and the people spill out like water from a knocked over vase and all the drops disperse to their intended destinations.Probably they're little homes cutely appointed. Expensive apartments that I couldn’t ever afford with views of the Seine River. Probably a few low-rent places that resemble mine back home. I felt kind of intimidated to get on the Metro because the map of the routes looked like a plate of Brigitte’s old fashioned spaghetti. However, after a few days, I’m eating it up and I’m like a born Parisian getting around like a real monsieur. Now it’s getting dark and there’s a chill in the air, and the street lights up like a Christmas tree and the blurry headlights of cars are passing by.I kept hearing about how the French don’t like Americans, but I’ve met nothing by kind people since I’ve been here.I’m already dreading the thought of going home where there are a lot of ugly Americans.
Some people were leaving, some people were arriving. Taxis gobbled up people and took them to the opera or to the theatre, or maybe just to a nice romantic dinner. Just to break up the routine, the occasional ER-ERR, ER-ERR, ER-ERR of the Paris gendarmes in their sporty little French police cars racing through the streets to the scene of the crime. Every time I hear it, I feel like I’m in a foreign film. Some kind of old spy thriller that they used to play on the late, late show. Just to play along I turn up the collar of my black trench coat and turn my head so they don’t recognize me as they go by. Ha,imagine me being wanted.I decided to crack open the bottle for a drink and just when I’ve given up all hope, I see a stylish middle aged woman walking what else?...a French poodle. The lobby is full of well dressed people. I'm sure they were all VIP’s. Every few minutes the Metro train passing by...Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack...rapidly as it rolls down the track to the station. It’s the number 6 train that takes you to The Louvre among other places and back. The train stops and the people spill out like water from a knocked over vase and all the drops disperse to their intended destinations.Probably they're little homes cutely appointed. Expensive apartments that I couldn’t ever afford with views of the Seine River. Probably a few low-rent places that resemble mine back home. I felt kind of intimidated to get on the Metro because the map of the routes looked like a plate of Brigitte’s old fashioned spaghetti. However, after a few days, I’m eating it up and I’m like a born Parisian getting around like a real monsieur. Now it’s getting dark and there’s a chill in the air, and the street lights up like a Christmas tree and the blurry headlights of cars are passing by.I kept hearing about how the French don’t like Americans, but I’ve met nothing by kind people since I’ve been here.I’m already dreading the thought of going home where there are a lot of ugly Americans.
