An Open Letter to Paris, France on Valentine's Day

Mon cher Paris,

Baby I'm sorry. Take me back. I know, I know, I haven't called. And I've been spending a lot of time with your older, more successful sister. But she's not nearly as pretty as you are. London? London means nothing to me.

I mean, who needs politeness. London's polite, but you, my dear are sexy. And you know it.
I'll take you back, warts (fonctionnaires) and all, if you'll let me cuddle up to you again, because....

Baby, I love you even though your garbage cans look like used condoms:



I love you even though most of your male inhabitants look like they've been attacked by an evil squid master race, disguised as scarves:

(unsuspecting Parisian male victim)

And Baby, I love you because of vignettes like this: Today I was in my local tabac, standing up at the bar drinking a coffee, like an old man, because it's 1 euro cheaper. Excellent. I am brought back to attention from a little Parisian daydream by snippets of the following conversation:

"Baiser (To fuck, in French)...Fuck...Baiser....fuck..."


[This conversation is taking place between the two owners of the café, and the old guy sitting at the counter. I immediately tune in.]


"Oui, les phoques......" (aha! not fuck, but phoques, which means seal)

"...quand ils reproduisent, c'est de la folie! C'est pour ça qu'on dit 'Baiser comme une phoque'"
(When they reproduce, it's madness! That's why they say, 'To fuck like a seal')

(Seals, really?! I think to myself. Is this why they, you know, club them? Moralizing Canadians on a rampage? I mean, look at this: Does this look like a rapaciously sexual animal?)

'Oui, même les petites phoques ont des besoins...'

Then, partially inebriated old man interjects. Mais non!

"Non, non! Pas une phoque, mais un foc, f-o-c...."

(So, not fuck, not phoque, but, rather, foc, which apparently means sail, like a sailboat: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foc)

[We all stare. How could you have sex like an inanimate object?]

"Le foc, it goes wherever the wind takes it, to right and to left....you know...."

[He gesticulatres wildly, showing the fluidity of a sail, and someone whose pants are similarly loose...]

'I never knew that,' we all agree. Linguistic enlightenment in a dank tabac-café; oh, Paris.

So, a happy belated Valentine's day to you, Paris, and to all you out there.

May your date have the morals of a sailboat.