What am I going to do
In which the worst possible thing to happen has happened.
i only have two speed settings for blogging: “makes you wonder if theyre even still active” or “your entire dash is nothing but me”
When people say they want to live in Europe so badly they mean “I want to live in the major capital cities such as London, Berlin, Paris, etc where it’s easy to ignore Europe’s issues and pretend there is no racism happening” because I’ve asked someone if they would like to live in underdeveloped states in the Balkans and their reply was “Oh but that’s not like Europe Europe!”
underdeveloped states in the Balkans
there’s no racism in Paris ahahahahahahaha
One night last weekend ATP and I were sitting with Pascale on the terrace of local watering hole. Somehow we’d started talking to the two people at the table next to us. The man was in his mid-to-late thirties, the woman in her early forties, though she seemed younger. A married couple, they’ll soon be celebrating their two-year anniversary. “This is my second marriage; it’ll be a record if I make it last two years this time!” the woman, Pauline, joked.
She works in customer service for a French company with a branch in the UK. Every month or so she spends a few days working at the office in Paris. This is the first time she took the hubby along. I forget what hubby does.
Both had a little bit much to drink. Pauline was awfully curious about me and how I was getting along, young thing that I am, an ocean away from my home. ” I can’t help but feel protective over you!” she told me several times. I couldn’t help but doubt the sincerity of her words. Particularly as she gave me a word of advice: “Don’t waste your time with older men!” This didn’t apply to her, as she was trying to seduce Pascale and not very discreetly either. Pascale might be a “silver fox,” but there’s at least a 20-year age gap between him and Pauline. Ahem.
Both were probably the oddest people I’ve met in Paris so far. They were living such average lives, they were too average for themselves. So average they, especially Pauline, couldn’t stand it. And so Pauline looks for some cure by going after what she doesn’t have, to put some vigor in her life, even if it might mean destabilizing her marriage.
Though I can’t much blame her: hubby didn’t have many interesting things to say except about the great and weird alcohol combinations to be found at his rugby parties. Snore.
What was interesting was how oblivious he acted to Pauline’s pawing at Pascale. Like, was he used to it? Did she do it to provoke him? Did he just not want to lose her and so he tolerated it? Were they an open couple?
Pascale may have been a bit proud at the attention, but she’s married for chrissakes what the hell is she doing? was the running thought of the night.
The five of us left watering hole after Ben swept us out. We wandered to the Bastille area and found out that even the super late-night places close at 2 am. The one place on the plaza that was open was packed, but in the back there was room. Three of us had overpriced “absinthe” and two had mojitos.
In front of us, a woman’s long hair fell into a candle and caught immediately on fire. Probably because of some flammable product she’d used, the flame got quite big, but she had so much hair she initially didn’t realize. A waiter rapidly suffocated the flame and luckily the worst the woman suffered was some burnt hair. The place smelled awful for the rest of the time we were there.