The last day we walked around the Sorbonne-area, and grabbed an excellent lunch deal (10 Euro for salad + large plate. WHAT). I got steak and fries, Clauj got a giant and slightly cumbersome bowl of mussels… But, being Brazilian, he found a way—by removing all the mussels, (reducing volume by roughly 90%) and making a giant cereal bowl of seafood tastiness.
Success!!
I took the RER back to Charles de Gaulle. And there, after many hours of waiting in CDG, I flew back to Barca.
- What’s hilarious about Paris is just how acceptable it is to subvert authority, i.e. I think I paid for 20% of train tickets all weekend, and jumped the kiosk all other times. Because of this city-wide penchant for cheating the system, contrôles are common—wherein cops stand at the exits of public transit and check to see that everyone’s tickets are validated. Fear of being yelled at by an angry French cop was pretty much the only reason why I paid for any tickets at all.
- French people are known for being rude, but, honestly, the French were much nicer to speaks-no-French Liza then the Catalans EVER treat speaks-castellano-competently Liza. This made me question my approach to life in Barca… Would they be nicer if I spoke English to them, rather than the language of their “oppressors” (read: Catalan bougey people hate high taxes)? I mean, a nice and also highly typical Catalan guy, with a straight face, told me to tell people, “Me agrada Catala, pero no parlo” (I love Catalan, but I don't speak it.) Yeah, because that makes a lot of sense? What’s sad is that I didn’t even contemplate how ridiculous this statement is until this weekend. I guess I have come to expect and accept that kowtowing to the Catalan ego is a pre-requisite to any semi-respectful conversation. Maybe the best solution is to seek out the non-Catalan, eh?
- That said, The Parisian cold weather made me appreciate Barca, for all of its “OH SHIT it’s 50 degrees, Imma freeze” mentality. Cold weather, muhhhhh. (Clauj: “My body has been in the Tropics for centuries, I’m not meant for cold!” Liza: “My body’s been in the frozen carcass of Eastern Eurpope for ages, yet I’m still cold? I am weak.”) Mediterranean weather 4eva.
- Somehow the Smells o' Barca (dog poo) were actually less severe than the alternately pee/rotten eggs Smells o' Paris. I mean, the Paris Metro is pretty much a giant urinal for all. Not pleasant.
- French hair: soooooooooo much better than the Barcelona-squid-look. I didn’t see even one person with dreadlocks (until my plane back to Barca, of course), hallelujah! These people have the right idea. Namely: shampoo.
- In that line of thought, the style of Paris was the exact opposite of Barcelona: Sleek, styled, everyone looking like they walked out of an advertisement... amazing. Still, you couldn't ignore the judgmental element that comes along with a high-fashion populace. See, for all their coldness of personality, in all my 3 weeks here the Catalans have never shot me the once-over-of-disappoval as much as the Parisians did in a mere 3 days. That said, I can't say my division of the fashion world was entirely absent in Gay Paris:
- Parisians adore staring you down, right in the eyes, as you walk past them. A strange feeling... I couldn't help but feel like something was on my face, 24/7. Maybe it was? Or maybe I am a beautiful model!
- People tend to romanticize Paris a lot. In my opinion, a bit too much. Coming from a family/community that pretty much hates Russia with a fiery fiery passion, francophilism (fave pastime of all of Russia) has always seemed ridiculous and pretentious to me. For this reason, I never got very excited about the romanticism around the image of Paris: Chanel, the Eiffel Tower, "Paris is for lovers," Paris J'taime, and other such bullshit. Still, I think I had a few moments of clarity: watching the adorable gay couples peruse the bagel shop of le Marais, munching on baguettes and apricot marmalade with Clauj every morning, ambling through the street market of Montmartre… In short, I think what I liked best about France was when I escaped the Paris clichés—overwrought and tired before I even got there—and found a truth I couldn’t define. But, I’m gonna say it, I think said-undefinable-truth had something to do with lots of delicious food. Nom nom nom!!!
All in all, a great and wonderful weekend with nice people and good food, featuring the world’s sweetest Brazilian, Mr. Clauj. I couldn’t have asked for more… except for more crepes. You simply can never have too many crepes.
CLAUDIOOOO ..
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