Sunday, November 8, 2009

Please Tell Me This Was Not a Date

I know I promised that my next post would be an on-going extraction from the awesomeness of my vacation...but I just felt like talking about something else, so viola. And yes, the "viola" is used just as frequent as you may think en France.

Last night I had another, this shit only happens to Stephanie Stein moment. I got invited to a soiree to be a plus one with a new "friend" named Marc from where else but the English/French conversation class. Best mix of people....EVER. I decided to accept, because well, why the hell not. So Marc proceeds to drive me 40 minutes outside of Paris, to a peculiar looking suburb that looks more like that shitty town in the middle of no where than I actually want to admit. And you may ask why leave Paris for a party on a Saturday night when this is practically the equivalent of leaving NYC for jersey city? Well, that's a damn good question. The ride there was interesting to say the least. Marc spent most of his time shuffling between techno cds, the clutch, his french excuse for a garmin, and when he wasn't too busy doing these handful of un-necessities, he was kept busy twitching or scratching something that didn't really itch at all. We continue to try and speak, although i think he finds it hard to speak English and be coked out at the same time.

Party. Hmm....I enter and meet about twenty 30-60 year olds who immediately gawk at me because I am American. And not in a good way, mind you. We drink, we eat, and after these people are really wanting to let loose so they push aside the tables and begin to dance to shitty American music of which of course they have no idea what is being sung about. Some just move side to side, others (who have had too much punch) are literally jumping up and down while kicking and talking to me in English like I am a half death three year old, and yet other 55 year old Italian men are convinced that I am their girlfriend. Sorry man, you smell. Oh yeah, and you're as old as my father, but not nearly as funny. Of course I dance with this strange congregation of people, and of course my date is the ONLY person sitting on the couch reading a philosophy book. Half way through the party he decided it was necessary to pull out his purse and start reading. Hmmmm...ok.

1 am rings and I am ready to get the fuck out of this place. Mark starts up the car and his tourettes again and cant seem to find the freeway. He starts talking to himself in French and jerking the car in 30 different directions. I was too tired to keep my built up laughter any longer. When he finally finds the freeway some cheesy American oldie comes on and he starts singing the chorus in his franglais...."can you feel the love tonight". Holy shit, get me out of here. There is some crazy french man serenading me in his beat up car to an Elton John song that is on the same disc as 20 techo songs. And an hour ago he was reading a philosophy book while telling me he could have gone to 5 other partys that night. Ok. YOU'RE A PSYCHO. This shit only happens to me...I need to start saying no to people when they ask me to go somewhere. Finally I get home at 2am. I had to laugh. And then I had to shower.

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