The Tally: Third Installment

As soon as AH and I would tell people of our plans to move to Paris, they would proceed to either tell us that A) the French are horrible, unforgivable snobs who will have you guillotined on sight or B) they are a heaven-sent people who poop creme brulee and will offer you their first-borns.  Ok, so I exaggerate, but there did not seem to be much middle ground on the topic.  And so, being that I have a gift for and a love of judgment, I have decided to do the world a favor and answer the question once and for all: are the French really assholes?


And so the tally currently stands at:


ASSHOLES: 1        NOT ASSHOLES: 3*


After spending two days hibernating, drinking tea, hacking up a lung and dazedly looking at Oscar red carpet photos, I decided to force myself out into the fresh air and sunshine of MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris.  But alas, not even the black swans (which I've mentally christened Natalie and Mila, natch) could convince me that  I wanted to be up and about more than I wanted to be curled up in bed squeezing honey into my mouth to sooth my burning throat.


Being that I haven't been able to undertake more physical stress than walking from the tram to the supermarket and back these last few days, I needed a little break halfway through the park, so I plopped myself down on a bench.  This is when two of the most delightful things about my time in Paris thus far came into my life:  Twisty, followed closely by Annette.  Twisty is a little white dog with a Snoopy sweater, and Annette is her fur turban-wearing, sweet-as-pain au chocolat owner.  Annette let me hold and coddle Twisty ("Twisty, like the dance") and was willing to strike up a conversation with me even though my French is demonstrably terrible.  She worried about me catching cold (too late) because I wasn't wearing socks; she asked if I liked the pastries here; she told me about her children and asked me when I would be having my own (an annoying question from some, it's an ok, even sweet, query from an elderly French woman).  She lamented that her English wasn't better; she has nieces and nephews in Australia, but only sees them a few days a year, so she's out of practice.  I told her not to apologize as her English was much better than my French; she assured me my French would get better with time and practice.  


All of sudden, Twisty stood perfectly at attention; he had spotted his chien amis walking with their owners, Annette's companions.  We bid a biento for now, but Annette assures me that she takes Twisty to the park every day that the weather is nice, so we are sure to meet again.  One more reason to look forward to spring.


*Twisty gets his own tally mark; he truly was, as Annette assured me, un chien gentil.