France is funny. Nobody talks on the metro. Nor do they have their ears hooked up to technological gear in order to create a personal soundtrack. I think the French are more comfortable with silence than we are. And with staring. There are more grocery stores than trash cans. People don’t pick up after their dogs; however, there are signs everywhere reading “I love my neighborhood, I pick up.” On the subject of canines, I must comment that Paris must be the Yorkshire Terrier capital of the world. Everyone and their best friend’s cousin has a Yorkie. Today I saw a Dauschund/Schnauzer mix and I can’t remember if I spoke to it out loud or not. I hope not. Old women are everywhere. I’ve never seen so many pairs of orthopedic heels in my life. So French. Did I say old? Oops. Today I learned that we don’t say “old” in French. We say “more aged.” A few days ago it was quite warm, and I was convinced that the strong odor was me...not so. Paris smells ripe in crowded areas. It’s the strong aroma of Frenchness. They wear it as a beacon of nationalism. Antiperspirant is illegal in France. No, really, I’m serious. The French can single us well-deodorized foreigners out with their olfactory senses. They all look so well put-together. Everyone. The straight men are often even more chic than the women. It’s a bizarre phenomenon. They have melons here that are just like cantaloupe. But it’s not called cantaloupe...no, no, it’s not. It’s French. My host parents smoke at 10 pm. I open my window so I can sleep without contracting malignant disease, and I inhale the six courses that the neighbors just ate. Good thing it smells delicious and French. I had a cheese the other day so strong that I think it’s still in my bloodstream. I think I could probably be arrested for it’s pungency if I were in the States. Internal Possession of Pungent Cheeses. What a liability. Luckily, strong cheese is more than welcome here. France is a funny place.
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