Paris
Paris is a huge contrast from Lyon…But It’s good to be back in Croissant City.
If Lyon was like Hoboken, then Paris is pretty much New York.
I’ve been to Paris once before–when I was fifteen. I thought it was boring and snobby. Today, unexpectedly, I was converted into one of those stereotypical Francophiles. It feels grossly delightful to say French words in proper pronunciation. And I thought the idea was quite impasse. I vaguely remember being a teenager with a bottle of Corona at the Champs Elysees being grabbed at the collar by a drunk anti-American Frenchman. He really made the solid impression on me. Now, I will tell you how it all changed.
Style Rendition
biker
Wherever I walked, fashion was flawless. I realize that I share a French fashion in comparison with other countries’ clothing styles.
Here is how I categorize different fashion-oriented nations:
The English exhibit classic and clean appearances, such that of Downton Abbey and Doctor Who.
The Italians are seriously on a constant invocation of daring getups. All I see is tight fitting red shoes and glossy burgundy Marty McFly vests to go with thick-framed Prada eyewear. It’s all one fun canvas.
The French dress in focus of elegance. They wear colors easy to the eye, such as scarves emanating soft fabrics and delicate colors. (Note to the mall rat: It’s kinda like Club Monaco except better.) I am happy to fit in.
(Interesting: For any military people out there, it may interest you to know that the French Army are issued tactical SCARVES. I am very jealous of this fact.)
Quentin and His Popup Store
Met Some Parisiens
I had the pleasure of meeting up with a gentleman named Louis along with his friend Camille. Louis & Camille are probably the most common French names I’ve ever heard. It’s ridiculous. At least they were nice. We met up at the Notre Dame. Good football team.
We proceeded to go out for some tasty crêpes and falafel. It’s simply my version of chicken & waffles. It still effectively puts me to sleep. Below is a picture of a great falafel joint, and, what some sources tell me is a tourist trap.
It tastes good, no matter what. I like eggplant, and it totally made a savory insertion onto my pita.
I learned to love Paris because of my personal and informal walking tour. Louis took me to parts of Paris with the least amount of tourists as possible. I came to encounter various corners of great cafes and restaurants. It’s great to see this side of such a popular city. (By the way, is it true that crépes are traditionally served whole wheat?)
The Crepe Cat hates pictures and walked away. She’s “a very French cat” according to Louis.
When I departed from Louis & Camille, I decided to do some exploring in the evening. That is when I ran into a fashion designer named Quentin. He is a cool fellow who had mistaken me for his very hipster friend, whatever that means.
There is many women in France. Infiníte! -Quentin
The clothing prices in Paris were pretty much similar to SoHo prices. €125 for a hip sweater, €280 for trendy sunglasses. The only difference was that America caught on the trend a little LATER. I was very impressed.
I ate at a restaurant called “Chez Moustache”
I ordered a potato dish covered in a wheel of Camembert. I practically paid €35 for cheese and potatoes. The bread “sack” was a relief to this relatively small (and very expensive) dish.
Camambert au Gratin, Chez Moustache. (€35)
The people sitting in the table beside me were a hip bunch. I met a lady from New York who lived in Paris for 25 years. It was her birthday and she looked like a thirty-year-old. She just turned 52. The gentleman with her lives in Jersey City. How cool is that? He didn’t say he was from there–he specified that only lives there. I can dig that a lot. How about those Brooklynites, huh?
I really lost the sense of time while I was in beautiful Paris. Overall, my time here was great. (And the macarons were ten times better.) I will return here again. ♣
The World Trade Center, Paris.
Fighting Irish!
Carlo, untucked. 
savory crepes have been made with buckwheat flour for hundreds of years in France and are not called crepes but “gallettes de sarrasin” (sarrasin=buckwheat)
Paris me manque!
I’m glad you shared that with me! I was trying so hard to remember. Sucre!