Holly’s friends had a Friday night wine party, and we really brought it – literally and figuratively:
- I played baguette ball to honor STL’s world series play
- teaching doris (that's her on the right, there) all the words to Penn's excellent drinking song "drink a highball" and she taught me something in austrian
- making my shoes cuss (b/c they’re broken – the sole is detached, so I can make them talk, and I taught myself a lot of French cuss words…combine these two facts, and its comedy magic)
- weird jammers playing like, the Charleston (the guitar dude was plumber) and other such hits from the 1920s
- telling daria to only speak to me in Italian
- 3 bottles of wine somehow
- meeting the crass girl and Hensley at Flemmings (ugh Long Island)
- trying to get a taxi, being too aggressive, losing taxi to un-gallant French boys --- FYI in america, we walk in the middle of the street and no one gives a shit except us if we get hit by a car
Saturday: hangover
went to Macdo (they have beer on tap), had crepes and tea at Savannah in Vieux Lyon
( I had the Davy Crocket, it was good -- its ham, cheese, and eggs, yes!)
As we were headed to the bus, I crossed the street, almost got run over by a motorcyclist, and met some French dudes who asked me if I hunted (or so I thought, I really had NO IDEA what they said, but I’m almost certain they were speaking to me), and I mentioned Louisiana (I was wearing my Marc Broussard Tshirt, heyo!), my name, Lorie the pop star, my age, and that I am older than Lorie, and I had her name first, but his accent was like, incomprehensible, but he was cuteness and sophisticated worthiness…nice shoes, too. The only way to tell if it’s a creeper or not, I have to look at the shoes.
Boys are different everywhere, have you noticed this? OMG!
US guys would not stand up to my shoe test, but I can see behind the eyes of US boys better – frenchies its like, hm. One can never play hard to get with enough zeal in FR, considering what a commitment it can be to give anyone your number. It’s practically asking for a week-long of stalking if you give out the number....but not always...my number is in the phones of some lovely French, don’t get me wrong! But its all quite fun, b/c you really can try out those coy ice princess type moves here. I digress.
Anyway, the boys didn’t get our number, but they did say they’d see us later, and who knows if you take that literally in France. I told them, I don't hunt, but bye!
Gotta love weird awkward moments where no one’s creepy or mean -- its like falling down on the ski slope as long as you don’t get hurt or lose a ski – its just so free and funny, I love it!
Being lost in translation is sortof hilarious.
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