It’s Not Like It Is In The Movies
by Charlene Watters
Je ne veux pas travailler.
Je ne veux pas déjeuner.
Je veux seulement oublier.
Et puis, je fume.
But there’s no smoking anymore in gay Paree. Instead of sitting in a bistro sipping espresso and smoking Gitanes, I’m on an escalator in Le Bon Marche heading towards ladies wear, armed with photos to see if I can find some knock-offs for my little Piaf-wannabe, Gail.
Ah Gail, ever the frugal little fashonista. Twenty years we saved for this vacation. We knew the sights we wanted to see, the restaurants we wanted to try.
Who knew, thought, that real French food was so rich? I told Gail she should take it easy. More salad and less soufflé. But this is our once in a lifetime vacation. Sample everything. And then spend the night puking it up. Cross shopping off her list and add it to mine since we can’t leave Paris without couture, faux though it may be.
Gail’s a trouper, though. She sent me to the hotel dispensary for some stomach soother and promised to come and see the sights after a short nap. Of course, her short naps tend to be anything but, so I’m on my own for the rest of the day.
On my own, in a frou frou store where the sales ladies sneer at my denims and sneakers. You think, in this recession, they’d be grateful for the money I’m spending. I bet they’re friendlier in Italy.