It is a shame that I did not write a proper journal while I was actually in Paris-but I was far to interested in going out to explore at every chance that I got. Not even the down time to write a lone postcard! Not that I didn't buy them...I horded them. If I couldn't take great photos at least I could have beautiful scraps of the city to litter about my room(I am now in the market for a little wire Eiffel Tower). I bought postcards in the area of Montmartre-two dozen for two euros and I lusted after some beautiful postcards bearing the lovely Micheal from Breathless in the Bonne Noveau area near the wax museum. I bought the typical vintage card of the Moulin Rouge. They sold the most darling little paintings and drawings near the Seine opposite Notre Dame. It was so garishly touristic but I could not resist.
To continue my episode, I woke up fresh on Friday morning ready to begin my day at the Hotel de ville where an exhibit of Grace Kelly was presented. I had just perused her biography so I was dying to see her photos and gowns especially the famed wedding gown crusted with pearls. It was closed in the morning unfortunately although I did end up going back later-a treat!
I just started walking "getting lost" as I was prone to do. I remember seeing Sacre Coeur while being stalked by some creepy gypsy kid who insisted on taking my photo-I found an American family and asked to latch on until he disappeared. I enjoyed cake and cafe at Lebonese? place full of the family. We made friends although they turned out to be shady as well-oops! No harm done. I was pretty lucky during the whole trip as far as that was concerned-Sarah got her wallet stolen, Paul got yelled at, and even sweet-as-pie Kendall got cussed out. But the worst that I remember getting is some guy cutting me out going through the turnstile-geez, that made me mad though. But really, for the most part, I was treated very well-the man in the restaurant who opened my wine bottle, the countless people who opened the door to Fleu's apartment for me(that damn key), Fleu, herself of course, and Nicholas-my motorcycle man, Fabrice with the american girlfriend, and millions others.
I ended up staying late chatting with Fabrice at a cafe near the Bastille and poor Fleu was expected me for dinner-I felt so terrible for her to have worried.
Fleu and I went out to a bar that Friday night to meet up with some of her friends with she dubbed as "special." The Chien Noir was "special" dark, smoky, malodorous, and very loud. Goth-chic, non? I attempted to speak french to her friends who eye-balled me but remained kind if a bit incredulous. We did meet the gorgeous Bernard there, he and his friend accompanied us to yet another bar, far more classy as sans the smell. There I finally noticed what a fox Bernard was, professed my undying love for le vin rouge and proceeded to spill it all over my lovely hostess. I could have killed myself for spilling it all over poor Fleu's white trousers. She was a gracious darling about it but I was practically writhing with guilt. By the way, both of the boys that accompanied us informed us of being policemen. I remember strolling with Bernard, wishing that I was fluent in french as he could not speak a work of L'anglise when out of the pure blue, he kissed me-Romance supreme! I felt like Leslie Caron in American in Paris(but with switched rolls). I often tried to pretend that my life in Paris was being filmed-I think that I could stir up more entertainment than whiney Lauren on the Hills-although I adore the show for godness sakes what american girl doesn't adore the stupid but ravishingly accessorized and addictive show? But I digress-Bernard was terrible hot and I remember being far too concerned with the sate of my hair during the lovely moments(shame on me).
I love that after he kissed me the first time, he apologized bashfully, "I am sorry...but I am romantic Parisian." I wish that I had seen French Kiss to know that I should have been more stand-offish but I was a bit overwhelmed to remember anything but to "kiss slow and take over the world and never look back." After all, to be twenty and kissing hot french men in Paris is soooo...tres fab?