Here at Sandwich we consider ourselves citizens of the world, eternal nomads and intellectually driven adventurers on a quest to find the ultimate enlightenment through the process of world travel. In other words, we liked Europe and are willing to marry for passports.
Sunday is back to cousins where one must contain the rage within after being insulted and lectured about the correct way to grab a husband.
#1 One must learn to cook and clean. No man wants a wife who can’t.
#2 Don’t bother about a job, find a man who’ll give you enough money to keep you happy and shut up.
#3 Men want to be looked after like their mothers.
#4 Get a nose job and lighten your dark skin.
Later I make my way back to the epic train station that is Gare du Nord which is apparently the beacon pick up joint for junkies, cousins and African Royalty.
Stalker junkie #1 comes out looking well high. I reply “Je ne parle pas Francais” in such perfect form that he refuses to believe me. Then he eyes me up and down and sucks his lips. Charming. He mumbles some more French. I laugh. He introduces himself, stares some more then fucks off to bum a cigarette off another victim.
Stalker #2 is slightly younger, not really a junkie, dark skinned and dressed in trendy jeans with perfect teeth I try to explain that I live in London, he says “J’aime beaucoup”. Another bum comes over asking me for a cig, I say “Sorry it’s my last one”. He’s intrigued by the sentence and repeats it “the last one” as if I’ve given him a new glamorous phase that will somehow unlock a box full of bum cigarettes. He then asks Stalker #2 if we’re together. Stalker #2 replies with something like “I’m trying”.
You have to hand it to the Parisian bums – hideous they may be, but also witty and so very socialist as they’re not ignored and sneered at as they are in Anglo countries.
Stalker #2 asks for my number but I say that I’m waiting for my (homo) boyfriend. He smiles, thanks me and leaves. If only all rejections were so civil and satisfying. Paris, je t’aime indeed.
Later we again wander into some cafe, drink the beauty that is European espresso, spark up and talk Iranian politics. How pretentiously Left Bank.
We then wander through Le Marais (the Jewish/Homo Haven or as I refer to it, My Utopia with it’s middle finger extended).
After eating some delicious crepes served by a fat waiter from Brittany, we make our way to the pretentious yet casually dressed crowd at La Perle. Rows of gorgeous men, Russell and his date, then us surrounded by four homos.
I must say French men live up to the cliche of being dark, chic and arrogant. A mixture of Guillame Canet/Romain Duris and that Dreamers dude. Floppy hair, jackets and eyes that scan every person in the bar. Unlike London where invisibilty reigns supreme, here people acknowledge your existence – and usually are not offended by it.
Some Yanks sit behind us on a double date. A Slavak looking bald bouncer stalks Ginga’s breasts which becomes annoyingly comical. We down some more wine, perve at Russell and his date (as we’re all so sad that we can’t get our own thus must crash someone elses), then stumble home singing power ballads. To send us to sleep with sweet dreams, Christophe gives us a one man homo show of the song “I Touch Myself” in his underpants. God I love Paris.
The next morning we board a bus back to London and are already hearing people complaining and being horrid to each other. Welcome back. Your own personal Hell missed you.
