L’Observateur : 11eme Edition

Riding the #9 Metro, I saw a guy balancing a soccer ball on his head while the car was moving. He lasted three stops with a stone grill, before losing it at Charonne. As the ball fell off his head, he caught it, busted out laughing, and got off the train.

This apartment smells like a wet Croatian ashtray.

When you get down to brass tacks, the differences between France and the United States really aren’t all that great. It reminds me of Harry Nilsson’s The Point, where Oblio goes into the Pointless Forest only to find that everything there has one – a point, that is. Humans are humans. End of story.

The notable exception is, of course, the food. There hasn’t been nearly enough coverage in these pages regarding French food. The worst meal here comes close to beating the best meal I’ve had in the United States, and I’m not even exaggerating. For starters, all the produce tastes better in France. And it gets a whole lot better from there.

After moving into the apartment, we found a box in the freezer which contained a dish from Picard, the frozen food store. It was a gynormous fish-shaped croissant with salmon, spinach, and cabbage inside. We cooked it while we were unpacking, and it went down nicely with that bottle of Cahors we’d been lugging around with us all week. The “fish’s” “eye” was a “peppercorn.” It was delectable.

Now that I think about it, the French hate big cars, love bike lanes, and live with a mindset that says “all we care about is eating, drinking, fucking, and taking lots of time off.” They’re a lot more like the Mexicans than I ever would have imagined. Take five, America.

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