"I am not autistic. Common misconception."
French women are amazing.
The average French woman, or should I say, the respectable woman of Paris, is roughly five foot tall, perfectly thin, and wears beautifully designed clothes with makeup to match. Her right arm is extended delicately to hold a lead which is attached to a small chihuahua or poodle. I am five-foot-nine. Walking through Paris with the absence of a toy-dog and beautiful clothes, I couldn't help but feel like a great strapping Celtic giantess with flaming red hair.
So my brother and I pushed our way through the crowds of midget peasants, making our way to the Louvre, which was the mission destination. We arrived at the Louvre to find large padlocked gates and a sign saying it was closed on mardi. Feeling hot, uncomfortably huge, and exhausted from tripping all the way from the train-station to the musée du Louvre, we didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
So we laughed. And then my brother and I made our way to the open modern art gallery, where we saw an original statue of Giacometti, and a large bamboo beehive affixed to a tall tree. We also saw bizarre concept art -- a fossilized sperm in a block of marble, an enormous blob of distorted silver metal, and the unforgettable rows of smiling Chinese pandas, which looked like they belonged in Disneyland rather than a respected French art gallery. I also saw a pigeon hobbling along with no toes, which broke my heart.
I had a delicious panini at the station. It had goat cheese (completely underrated) and slices of tomato, on the most delicious bread I've ever tasted. British food, by comparison, is dogmeat. On the other hand, I ordered a pizza at a little tourist café on the first day, to receive this horrible, flimsy piece of frozen bread with unmelted cheese and blocks of ham. I picked the ham off and ate it anyway. I was starving. It must be what they think British people are used to. True, naturellement, but you expect better from the nation renowned for its cuisine.
We bought a couple of very pungent smelling cheeses at the market. The smell has been compared to 'dead baby', but it is actually very delicious.
Another thing I noticed was the lack of subtlety. We must have looked very different -- perhaps because we are not midgets -- so we were stared at, ogled, gawped at wherever we went. As my brother said: We're not on display, we're on holiday!
The average French woman, or should I say, the respectable woman of Paris, is roughly five foot tall, perfectly thin, and wears beautifully designed clothes with makeup to match. Her right arm is extended delicately to hold a lead which is attached to a small chihuahua or poodle. I am five-foot-nine. Walking through Paris with the absence of a toy-dog and beautiful clothes, I couldn't help but feel like a great strapping Celtic giantess with flaming red hair.
So my brother and I pushed our way through the crowds of midget peasants, making our way to the Louvre, which was the mission destination. We arrived at the Louvre to find large padlocked gates and a sign saying it was closed on mardi. Feeling hot, uncomfortably huge, and exhausted from tripping all the way from the train-station to the musée du Louvre, we didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
So we laughed. And then my brother and I made our way to the open modern art gallery, where we saw an original statue of Giacometti, and a large bamboo beehive affixed to a tall tree. We also saw bizarre concept art -- a fossilized sperm in a block of marble, an enormous blob of distorted silver metal, and the unforgettable rows of smiling Chinese pandas, which looked like they belonged in Disneyland rather than a respected French art gallery. I also saw a pigeon hobbling along with no toes, which broke my heart.
I had a delicious panini at the station. It had goat cheese (completely underrated) and slices of tomato, on the most delicious bread I've ever tasted. British food, by comparison, is dogmeat. On the other hand, I ordered a pizza at a little tourist café on the first day, to receive this horrible, flimsy piece of frozen bread with unmelted cheese and blocks of ham. I picked the ham off and ate it anyway. I was starving. It must be what they think British people are used to. True, naturellement, but you expect better from the nation renowned for its cuisine.
We bought a couple of very pungent smelling cheeses at the market. The smell has been compared to 'dead baby', but it is actually very delicious.
Another thing I noticed was the lack of subtlety. We must have looked very different -- perhaps because we are not midgets -- so we were stared at, ogled, gawped at wherever we went. As my brother said: We're not on display, we're on holiday!