19 August 2008

That Unadulterated Kind of Hate

Days Until I Get to France and Realize that I have all the wrong shoes: 9

I just read this book on French women-- okay, 3 pages of a book on French women-- and I 've already learned that I'm screwed. I don't have the mandatory 2 lipsticks, I don't have ANYTHING in chasmere, and my hair wouldn't know how to twist itself into a flawless bob. And apparently, a real "francaise" would NEVER leave the house wearing tennis shoes, not even to buy a loaf of bread, because they may run into someone they know. Apparently tennis shoes give the wrong impression. And I think that impression is: American.

Okay, so I'm an American. So what? Who cares if they know it? Maybe this red flag tennis shoe monstrosity (that I'll have to wear just to relieve my feet from the blisters and pain from the heeled-boots and stiff flats I've bought for France) will have an upside. Maybe my tennis shoes--even the sleek black ones I bought to be as discreet as possible--will let them know to talk to me in pedantic, easy French that I'll actually be able to understand.

I hate shoes.

But I don't hate everything French. Specifically not Chez Shea, the haute cuisine restaurant downtown above Pike Place Market, so beautiful and delicious that you force yourself to eat every bite of the four course meal until you're sick. And then get dessert. It's that good. And my beautiful boy (man soon) looked handsome, all dressed up and smiling (the wine may have helped).

So it's really just the shoes I hate.

Except the delicious black flats Aisha gave me. It's like she handed me this unwanted rock and I polished it to find a diamond. Or something.




It's raining today, the first water I've seen after this desert-90 degree stretch of Seattle torture. And I'm happy, the rain reminding me that i'm going to spend fall in Paris.

1 comment:

Josh said...

I wish we still had nine days.