Vacation Discoveries

Today as I was driving home from a fantastic and very relaxing massage at the end of a glorious week of vacation from my tiresome job of serving coke after endless coke (yes, I’m using a lot of superlatives, but life is just that fucking fantastic right now, so just go with it…), I was listening to the ‘On Broadway’ channel of my XM radio and a song from the original Broadway production of You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown came on the radio. The name of the song is ‘Book Report’. If you are not familiar with the show, it is about the Peanuts gang—snoopy, Charlie Brown, Lucy, Linus, and all the rest of them. They are in school and going through their various misadventures. Anyway, during this particular song, the kids are singing about the book report that they must write for school. The book: The Adventures of Peter Rabbit. 100-word minimum. Simple enough. Of course we can all remember back to the days of writing book reports and other creative writing tasks given in elementary school and recall that it was often more difficult and cumbersome to come up with 100 words about something we didn’t particularly care about than we would have thought. One of the boys in the song is literally adding extra ‘verys’ to how much he liked the ending…’very very very very very much’, and then counting the words to make sure he hit exactly 100 words. (I, of course, as you can tell from my other essays, have never had that problem. Instead, I have always prided myself on my verbosity, and was usually told by teachers to be more concise than anything else.) In any case, it is a very interesting and funny song about these four kids struggling to write a book report about this benign and rather morose subject.

The song got me thinking about writing and why I like writing about my adventures (and also why I sometimes despised writing papers in school). The simple answer…I. Yes, the word I. In school, you are told to avoid the I and to take a more objective stance on a subject. However, when those damn professors want you to express yourself and make a case for your opinions, it becomes a little awkward to escape the I and to use expressions like ‘one’ or ‘some individuals’. I don’t know how many times I just wanted to thrust an I in my papers to really underline my opinion. Some professors told me that the I was often inferred and that my paper would be stronger by remaining quietly on the sidelines. But, I’m sorry, my name is on that paper and it’s pretty obvious that I wrote the damn thing, so why should I sideline myself. Rather, I I I I believe I should jump on in there and really own up to my cause.

So, now that I have stopped writing for a grade, I feel more at liberty to use the elusive I as much as me, myself, and I choose to. That’s why writing about my own adventures and stories is so much fun. I get to secretly spite my professors and teachers en masse by using as many I’s as I damn well please. Plus, I think the shit that happens to me or that I witness is often very entertaining, so I might as well share it with you. You, yes you. Well, I might as well slam this door wide open and get rid of everything objective. Now it’s about you AND me. How do you like them apples? I thought so…

So, where am I going with this? Not sure exactly. But it sure has been fun talking about myself in the first person rather than a withdrawn third person. After all, I am on vacation and might as well make it all about me.

Okay, enough of that garbage. Let’s get on with a funny anecdote of something crazy that happened to me on my stupendously fabulous (yay for superlatives) week of vacation that I can share with you. Let’s see… Well, I just finished a week-long cruise in the Caribbean aboard the stunning Allure of the Seas, the largest cruise ship in the world. I like to call this cruise ‘The Big GAY Boat Ride’, because with 4500 gay men, well, that’s pretty much what it was. As you can imagine, with so many gay men there was plenty of unnecessary drama and craziness—parties galore, hearts broken, bitch slaps, rippling muscles, and gallons upon gallons of vodka. I can’t even begin to imagine just how much vodka was consumed during the week of festivities—they say that the main ingredient in the human body is water, but I’m thinking that figure may be slightly off for the martini-slinging gay man. Oh well, it’s all in good fun. Until it turns tragic or trashy, which…eek…happens. On the other hand, vodka does lead to some amazing times as well—like a flash mob of gays sporting itty-bitty swimsuits and drag queens with stiletto heels and gaudy wigs that suddenly appear on the pool deck to dance to Lady Gaga. Just close your eyes and imagine that. Scary. But, oh so entertaining. So long shuffle boards and walker races…hello Homo hello!

It was amazing just how many different types of men were represented onboard. Bulging bicep men, hairy men, short men, tall men, ugly men, beautiful men, old men, young men. White men, brown men, black men, and thanks to body paint, even silver and purple men. Men wearing t-shirts and jeans, men wearing slacks and sweaters, men wearing tight little swim trunks, and men wearing nothing at all. Men, men, men everywhere. It was a gay people watcher’s dream. Men, men, men, woman, men…wait a second. Yes, there were actually a couple of women onboard, 70 to be exact. (not counting the women amongst the 2,000 Royal Caribbean staff members—it takes a lot to run a city-sized cruise ship). It was actually such an anomaly seeing a woman that you almost didn’t believe it was a ‘real’ woman. (sorry divas, but you drag queens don’t actually count) Also, many of those real women were hard to spot—some of them much more masculine than any of the gay boys could ever hope to be. 70 women and gobs upon gobs of gay men. Needless to say it was an eventful week, what with all the visual stimulation I could fathom. I’m not sure if I can handle so much excitement again, but it was definitely worth trying once.

After a week of cruising craziness, I have returned to reality, and alas, the vacation is coming to an end. Back to work I go…god, I hope I still remember how to open a coke… ! Until next time: keep it fun, keep it gay, and (sorry professors) always make it personal!

Left in the First Class Closet...

I’d like to call this piece ‘Left in the first class closet,’ because it gives a very broad range to the litany of items one might find in the extremely cramped space where we are supposed to hang coats for first class passengers. Sometimes there are, indeed, coats stored in this closet. More often, however, there is an array of odds and ends (with emphasis on the odd) that seem to find their way into this coveted storage space. Let me explain how this came to be.

Scenario # 1: Long, long ago, there was a plethora of available overhead bins, spacious and roomy with plenty of space for Aunt Marge’s cute little, pastel beige weekender. With the advent of baggage fees and the roll-aboard suitcase, suddenly the once cavernous overhead bin space is now teeming with bags and Aunt Marge no longer has any room to fit her now, MASSIVE, suitcase. Confronted with the unknown fate of having to check her bag and the fear that it may not arrive with her in Topeka, Aunt Marge sweetly, yet firmly, attaches herself to the bag and swears life and limb that she will not let it out of her sight. The solution: ‘oh, let’s shove it in the coat closet.’

Or consider Scenario # 2: Mr. Williams, who is seated in 3C, just needed to make one last phone call and have one last cocktail in the frequent flyer lounge before boarding his flight to destination XYZ. He waltzes on the plane just before the door closes with a huge bag and an even larger computer bag…hmm…personal item? I don’t think so. Maybe it should be called ‘big enough to fit a person’ item. But that’s beside the point. All the overhead bins are full and because Mr. Williams is one of our ‘best’ customers, we decide to stow his bags in the: yep, you guessed it, first class coat closet. Never mind that his bag(s) is now stacked on two flight attendants’ bags and an array of other crap, and that it is smooshing your delicate coat up against the wall. Sorry. Perhaps wrinkles are in this year? One can’t help wondering if this was Mr. Williams master plan in the first place; after all, his bags get to ride in style and he himself actually suggested that we put his bags in the closet in the first place. Tricky? Oh yes, I’ve seen it all.

Of course we don’t allow access to every bag that wants to live in the coat closet. Actually, we aren’t supposed to put any passenger bags in the closet at all, because it is supposed to be for, uh, coats. Go figure. But passenger items are not always the offending party. More often than not, flight attendant bags seem to find their way into the closet. The typical scenario for that goes something like this: Shelly and Bev love to shop and really needed to buy 4,000 pounds of crap during their 9-hour layover in Des Moines. Those bags are really heavy now and it is physically impossible for them to lift their bag into the overhead bin. So, where do they put their gargantuan bags? Yep. Unfortunately despite strict baggage guidelines (yeah, right) and even clearly posted weight limits on the closet wall, somehow the closet is always overflowing with bags and other junk, which is a fineable FAA offense (and we’re talking thousands of dollars). The simple, should-be, organized coat closet is really a disaster in the works.

So, what sorts of items can one find in said coat closet. Let’s take a closer look at some of the hoopla that makes up its contents. At any one time or another, I have discovered the following paraphernalia jammed into an airplane coat closet:

· Passenger/crew coat (normal)

· Passenger/crew suitcase (annoying, but relatively normal)

· Folding chair (useful in case we spontaneously decide to tailgate)

· Painting/Mirror/Drawing (oblong and delicate, hopefully arriving in one piece!)

· Animal skull (complete with a myriad of horns)

· Grocery bag (often with foul smelling cheeses or other unknown substances)

· Colostomy kit (unused, thank god)

· Crutches/cane/assistive device (normal but not always easy to fit)

· Heavy artillery (unloaded and on a military charter but weird, nonetheless)

· Oversized stuffed animal (presumably won in a fair, but maybe some brat’s favorite toy)

· Gigantic wooden figurine (person, place or thing…seen it all)

· A small child (apparently he thought it was a good place to build his fortress)

· A box of bibles (destined for some forlorn hotel room in Romania)

· Dishes/vases (good luck to you on those showing up in one piece!)

· A ten pound box of grapefruit (hmm…hmm)

· Kotex (unused…again, thank god)

· Condoms (unused, but still condoms—‘mile high club’ anyone?)

· False teeth (probably fell out of an elderly person’s bag—either passenger or, sigh, flight attendant)

· Toupee/weave/wig (poor bald person who lost their hairpiece)

· Afghan (the blanket, not a citizen of Afghanistan)

· A puppy (left by an owner who didn’t realize ‘pet in cabin’ actually meant ‘pet in cabin and at seat with owner’)

· A flight attendant (she decided to take a nap there during crew rest on an international flight—why? No idea…)

· Mink stole with the heads still attached (gruesome, at best)

· Stroller/collapsible playpen/diaper changing table (rubbing up against first class coats…perhaps yours)

· Stuffed penguin (who shoots a penguin?!?)

There are other things that I can add to this list, some of which worth mentioning, others of which are better left unnamed. Some interesting, some banal. The real point is: why do we carry half of this sh*# onto the airplane in the first place, and why does it always end up sitting on top of my lunch bag or rubbing up against the coats of the well-to-do who put their coat in the closet so that it would be well looked after and not wadded up into a mess, like it usually is at the end of a flight!? Lets get one thing straight. This isn’t ‘Hoarders at 30,000 feet’. It’s a closet. For coats. Any questions?

Memories of a Shitty Taxi Ride

Holiday greetings to everyone from Paris, Portland, Omaha, Atlanta as well as points in between. Undoubtedly this holiday season, you will find yourself crammed into a full airplane, car, bus, or other form of transportation. Family and strangers abound, luggage is stacked everywhere, and there is barely any room to breathe. You might begin to think that it can’t get any worse, and that at any moment the plane or car will burst at its seams. As I board flight after full flight, I am reminded of a traveling situation that pushed the limits on what I thought was possible and made me realize that even when you think the vehicle is full, well, think again. This memory gives me a bit of solace during the busy holiday travel season, and will hopefully put a smile on your face. Although it happened well before my airline days, when I was a Peace Corps volunteer in West Africa, it is just another example of the crazy shit that happens to me.

A Shitty Taxi Ride:

When we traveled between towns in Benin, we took bush taxis—old run-down Peugeots—that were loaded down with people, furniture, children, goats, chickens, food, and whatever else they could manage to fit in and on them. While I was in training in Lokossa, Benin, I had to make a day trip to the neighboring town of Dogbo to learn more about the Beninese healthcare system. A Peace Corps SUV dropped me off, but I was on my own on the way back and, I must say that the return trip was far less glamorous.

I positioned myself on the side of the road to wait for a passing taxi. The taxi that pulled up was creeping along slowly and was riding just a few inches off the ground, for inside it, was packed fourteen people. Now, this car was built for maybe five people with some minor trunk space—it was a hatchback. Well, the trunk space had been converted into more seats, so now its ‘full’ capacity was eight people. So, how did it happen that this vehicle was already packed with fourteen people? And why was the driver stopping to pick me up? Certainly there was no more room for me. When I looked through the window, the insides of the vehicle were like something from a Dr. Seuss book. On the back seat, there were five people packed like sardines on a seat built for two. On the middle seat, there were six more people. Sure some of these people were children, but there were also a number of Marché Mamas! (women with enormous hips and backsides that sell in the market and could easily fill up a row of seats in this car by themselves) When I looked in the front windows, there were only three people, and the compartment looked much roomier than the tangle of bodies and limbs that I saw in the backseats. The passenger door opened, and despite the little voice in my head that pleaded me to wait for another car, I climbed in and slammed the door shut. The car lurched and off we went.

Also riding on top of the car, was a band of four goats that were tied onto the car amongst the pyramid of sacks and bags, making the normal sized car about fifteen feet tall—thank goodness Benin doesn’t have overpasses. So, we’re driving along and, low and behold, a woman and her three small children flags us down. I remember thinking, hmm, they don’t look that big, but at the same time, we already had fifteen people smooshed into this car and couldn’t possibly fit anyone else, let alone four someone elses. The taxi driver seemed to think otherwise. He pulled over and before I knew it, bam!, our numbers swelled to nineteen! Nineteen people crammed into a vehicle built for eight! There were no seatbelts, and with the huge, gaping rust holes in the bottom of the vehicle, it probably wasn’t very safe. But man, was it an adventure!

So, we start on back down the road, leaning from side to side as the road curves but staying upright, so all is good. After about five minutes, we started up a long steady incline, and the vehicle’s speed began to slow as it slugged up the hill under its considerable weight. It was a very tiny hill, but that car just barely made it to the top, and I must say we all let out a collective sigh when that poor car crested the top of the hill. Pushing it would have been out of the question.

Now, you might say that this journey was sufficient ‘local flavor’ as is, but oh no, it got crazier. Throughout the drive, the taxi driver had been avoiding the copious potholes in the road, and during our descent from the hill, he had to swerve around a couple of big potholes that put our already top-heavy car in jeopardy of toppling over. At the same time, the car began to gain speed as we used gravity to power the vehicle down the hill—the driver actually turned off the car in order to save gas. Saved gas yes, but it also made turning more difficult. So, whilst we were trying to avoid one of the big potholes, the car actually bottomed out, which caused everyone in the car (and everything stacked on top of it) to shift a bit. Up above us, one of the goats lost its perch on the taxi and fell off the side of the car, my side to be exact. It was still tied to the taxi by its feet and was dangling at eye level. You might even say that Mr. Goat and I were practically kissing. I’m freaking out almost as much as the goat, and I’m extremely shocked that no one in the car seems even slightly bothered by this situation except me. When I pointed out the terrorized goat to the taxi driver, he grunted and told me to push the goat’s head out the window and that we would stop in a few minutes. Bad idea. I pushed the goat out of the way, and like a spinning piñata, he flipped around leaving his behind in my face. Goats, I discovered, are like human beings in that they tend to defecate when faced with sheer terror. So, now I have a screaming goat that is shooting forth a torrent of poopy pellets onto my lap, and we’re still driving down the road in an overcrowded taxi.

Now, you might read this and think that it was a horrible experience. I, on the other hand, prefer to look on the experience as unique and interesting, a real life adventure! This kind of thing only happens once in a lifetime, er, hopefully…

Happy Holidays and safe travels! I hope they are full of comfort and joy rather than crowds and poop.

The Baggage Situation

One of the largest problems with modern day air travel, and one which we all have observed with increasing anxiety, is the baggage situation. Gone are the days when we could check two pieces of luggage for free, and where your carry on consisted of a daypack to transport a book, magazine, or your favorite stuffed animal. Overhead bins were once cavernous compartments where you had to be careful how you placed your shoulder bag, placing it appropriately so that the contents wouldn’t spill out when the bag shifted on takeoff—often times it was the only bag in the entire compartment. There was never any question of a bag not fitting, simply because people didn’t carry on as much stuff. It was much easier to check your bulky suitcase and forget about it until you got to your destination. (God willing that it actually made it to your destination, that is…)

But those days are gone. Now, most airlines charge for baggage check—at first it was only the second bag, and passengers were still allotted one free checked bag. Soon, however, the airlines began charging for all checked bags. Granted, there are some deals with credit cards and membership rewards that grant one free checked bag, and the first checked bag is usually considerably less than the second bag, but the name of the game in the airline industry is: FEES. Lots of them. Fees for checked bags. Fees for reservations/cancellations. Fees for food and drink onboard the plane. Maybe soon we will have to pay to use the bathroom…heaven forbid what the passenger response to that will be. Depends? And yes, I do mean adult diapers. A simple explanation for these fees is this: airline fares have not increased enough to match inflation—a typical cross-country fare today is several hundred dollars less than what it should be given what that exact same route sold for in the early 1980s. Everything else has become more expensive—meals in restaurants, gas, hotel charges—just not airline fares, not enough anyway to match the rate of inflation. Also, with the rise of low-cost carriers, fare wars have erupted between the different airlines to keep those planes in the air, and to keep the airline in business. With rising fuel costs and a stalemate in fare augmentations, the solution became imminent: fees. And those fees are working. With them, airlines are better able to cover operating costs while still keeping their fares relatively low. Baggage fees alone are grossing air carriers millions of dollars every year. Therefore, long story short: airline fees are here to stay and can only get worse with time.

Because of the ever-increasing fees for checked baggage, the carry-on bag situation is becoming dire. Once empty overhead bins are now filled to the max, with closure latches straining against the load. Sometimes we cannot even get every carry on bag into the overhead bins and are forced to check those bags, albeit free of charge, much to the chagrin of frustrated passengers. Such frustration is justifiable; times are rough and money is tight. Nobody wants to pay fees if they don’t have to, and so the solution is a back breaking one: cram a trip’s worth of clothes, toiletries, etc. into a carry-on sized roll-a-board suitcase, limit one. Now there are ‘acceptable’ size dimensions for carry-ons, but it seems that the policing of such dimensions have disappeared entirely; those handy ‘Does it Fit?’ bag sizing boxes at the gate are seemingly just for show. To add insult to injury, most bags are designed with a handy zip out pouch, effectively increasing the depth of the suitcase by several inches. Unfortunately, when one does this, the bag is no longer an acceptable carry-on size and won’t fit into the overhead bins without some serious coercion. I’ve seen people all but hammer their bags into the overhead bin—never mind the fact that if they break the bin, the plane won’t be going anywhere until repairs are made, which could mean a cancelled flight. Plus, those bins have weight restrictions. I have never seen one collapse, but anything is possible and I would hate to be on a plane when an overhead bin implodes due to excessive overloading.

It may sound egotistical, but I must say that I have become somewhat of an expert on packing an overhead bin in an efficient manner. Passengers continually ignore flight attendants’ and agents’ pleas to place their bags wheels or handles towards the aisle to accommodate more bags or to place their second bag under the seat in front of them; but damn I’m good at making it work, nonetheless. It is a personal glory to pack that sucker well, and to prove to a skeptical passenger that I can, indeed, get their bag into that bin and make it close securely. It’s the little things, after all.

Boarding can be a fairly stressful thing for flight attendants and passengers alike, a kind of war for bag proximity. Everyone wants their bags in the bin near their seat, even claiming that someone ‘stole’ their overhead bin. I hate to tell you people, but you purchased, no, rented that seat for this flight and the overhead bin space is just an add-on. No one has specific ownership over any one overhead bin; it is literally a free-for-all, and typically the early arriving individuals (or the premium passengers) win out—survival of the fittest, in a way. I’ve seen people nearly take down another passenger, or yours truly, in an effort to win the best overhead real estate. Arguments arise, and people are ready to do battle. And of course they turn to me. Now, if I have learned one thing from this job, it’s that you really have to pick your battles. Sure, I could try to force every passenger who has placed more than one item in the overhead bin to share their space or to place smaller bags underneath their seat, but I have learned that an angry passenger (or an entire herd of them) is not a fun situation on a long flight, and makes everything that much harder. So when you assume that your flight attendants don’t care, think again…we do care, but we also value our lives and sanity.

Now, while it is true that passenger carry-on luggage has turned a bit excessive, they are not the only culprits. People in the airline industry, themselves, have begun to carry-on more and more. And I’m talking about flight attendants. Flight attendants, not all, but a surprisingly large number, believe that they have to pack for the possibility of a nuclear fall out during their trip. Sure, some might be packing for multiple trips in a row, and many have been stranded in places for days due to weather or mechanical cancellations, but most flight attendants don’t really need half the crap they cram into their suitcases. For example, I was flying a turnaround (one leg out and one leg back in the course of a day) and the flight attendant with me (also from Atlanta) had a huge roll-aboard filled to the brim, a ‘tote’ bag large enough to carry a pygmy elephant, a lunch bag the size of most tote bags, and her purse, again large enough to fit 3 years worth of makeup and other odds and ends. When I asked her why she wanted to carry around so much stuff, she replied that there was always the possibility of a reroute (we could be sent to another destination or have our trip extended) and she wanted to be prepared. When asked what was in her bag, she replied…”only the essentials: beach ware, winter ware, a parka, a nightclub outfit, food in case the airport suddenly went into famine, a variety of shoes to match any occasion, etc. etc. etc. Holy Crikey! All this for a one-day trip! And all of this crap went into the overhead bin, further limiting our available baggage space. Oh, and those bags were heavy—she could barley lift them, which is often the case with some of our more, ahem, senior flight attendants, and, of course, she wanted to know if I would lift them for her…uh, hell to the no lady!

So, as you can see the bag situation is getting bad…really bad. Baggage fees will probably continue to increase, and the overhead bins will continue to be jammed full. Every time I see a bag larger than me carried on to the plane, I cringe in empathy for those poor overhead bins, and pray that the sucker doesn’t give out mid-flight. I beg you please, reader, check the bag. Pay the fifteen bucks and give your back a rest.

Paris--ooh la la!

Paris. What a fabulous place. City of lights. City of love. City of baguettes, wine, and cheese. So many hyperboles decorate this magnificent city, a crossroads of central Europe and a magnet for culture and history buffs. With its wide-swept boulevards, quaint cafes, palatial museums, and characteristic neighborhoods, Paris is a city of contrasts. There is no lack of things to see and do, and culinary delights abound for every palate. Some may say that Paris is cliché, a tourist trap for traveling Americans or Europeans, and that savvy travelers should discover other hidden gems off the well-trodden path. I have had the opportunity to explore cities and countries all over the world, and while I have discovered some amazing places, I will always hold Paris dear to my heart. As sappy as it may sound, I fall in love with Paris each time I visit, when the city and sights welcome me back into their embrace.

Friends and family always ask me what it is about Paris that enthralls me so. I guess I would have to say that Paris’ mix of familiarity and mystery is what does it for me most. I know the grand boulevards and neighborhoods so well that it is like visiting an old friend. I can go away for years and still come back to the Louvre, to the Marais, to the Seine, and to the Eiffel Tower. Slight changes may occur throughout the city, however, these edifices are constants, as reliable as anything could be. Coupled with this, however, is the constantly changing charge of the city—it is as if a wind of change comes through the city and sweeps new energy and life through its streets. New festivals, new storefronts, new cafes, and new people keep the city vibrant and fresh amongst the fixed framework of the city’s buildings. This wind infects me and draws me along its course, and with it I discover new sections of Paris that I never knew existed—entire subcultures and neighborhoods that border the places that I thought I knew so well. It is the dichotomy of new and old that keeps Paris alive and keeps me coming back for more.

Paris has become a city of shopping and culture. High-end shops abound throughout the city, budding up to middle-range and low-end shops as well. There are neighborhoods that are more fashionable than others, but no specific lines are drawn to separate the rich from the poor, especially in a city where property is exceedingly pricey. You could be walking through a seemingly run-down area of town and happen upon a branch of Chanel or Louis Vuitton, or the upscale Paul boulangerie chain. Similarly, small stores and bodegas appear even in the more ritzy area of town, giving the city the feeling of a well-mixed batter, no room for lumps. Throughout the city you will find antique markets, farmers’ markets, and a slough of flea markets, including one of the largest in Europe at Saint-ouen. Here you will find unimaginable creativity and priceless treasures from throughout Europe and from around the world. For a slice of history, you can even take a gander at one of Paris’ hundreds of museums. From the romance and grandeur of the Louvre, to Picasso’s masterpieces, the sculptures of Rodin, or even a look at Paris’ historic past, there are so many diverse museums to uncover. There are even museums about Paris’ sexy and sometimes darkly erotic subculture at Pigalle and the not-so-sexy subterranean tour of an actual working sewer—yes, that is exactly what it looks like floating by in the underground stream below you! Or if the theatre or opera is more your style, there are hundreds of large and small performance venues throughout the city. Intimate lounge settings host an array of musicians, and grandiose concert halls resound with touring and local performances. The list of activities goes on and on, and new offerings are constantly being added.

No trip to Paris would ever be complete without a sortie into the culinary splendors that abound throughout the city. French cooking is truly exquisite, and every region of France has its own unique ways of concocting delectable delights. In Paris, the capital and cultural mecca of France, you can find restaurants that specialize in all of France’s great cuisines. Mussels and frites from Normandy, crepes from Brittany, and fabulous sausages from Alsace are just some of the foods to try. And no meal would be complete without a glass or two (or twenty) of France’s plethora of wine. Most every region of France produces wine, and new mélanges of different grapes are constantly being mixed. Finish it off with a plate of pungent French cheese or an exquisite chocolate mousse or crème brulee or any number of other desserts, and you will think you are in heaven. Plus, you can hang out at the restaurant until it closes, for the French would never dream of shooing someone from their table, interrupting the shear delight of the experience.

I have often heard it said that the only thing wrong with Paris and France is the French. The French are seen as rude and unwelcoming. Historically, they are viewed as dirty, smelly, cold, and haughty. I once even heard the results of a poll that claimed that amongst all the countries that hated the French, the French, themselves, disliked their own kind the most. Now this may be hard to believe, but after living with the French, I can attest, yes, they have some difficult and oftentimes annoying qualities. But who doesn’t. Every culture is bound to have its own shortcomings that may rub others the wrong way—it’s part of what keeps us unique. When I lived in France, I often found it difficult to make friends, as people in a bar were less likely to engage in conversation than they were in bars and other social situations in the USA. The French are, indeed, less ‘out there’ when it comes to self-expression and are much more reserved; one French psychologist even claimed that the French were, as a society, inherently self-conscious. This collective self-consciousness may explain why foreigners often deem the French as cold. I have typically learned that once the French lower their guard, they are very interesting and curious people, eager to learn about others and to share cultural insight and exchange.

For its shopping; culture; mystery; and people, Paris is a marvelous place, well worth discovering. I recommend it whole-heartedly. For those who have not visited Paris and for those who frequent it often, there are plenty of sites to discover—smells and tastes to entice and enchant you. I believe you cannot entirely know Paris, for new discoveries will arise amid the everyday fortifications of the city. Paris truly is a city of splendor and delight. But then again, that is just my opinion. Feel free to discover it on your own. When you do, I hope that you will share your adventures with me and with others so that we may all continue to learn things about my favorite city.