And so Monday night, despite the lack of fireworks and cheap beer (we were hanging out in the church courtyard- not the place to get trashed on Budweiser), we managed to have a patriotic enough time. My buddy Mike brought the closest approximation to s'mores ingredients that he could find (chocolate cookies and pink marshmallows) and a soundtrack full of Americana: Tom Petty, Billy Joel and, most importantly, Lee Greenwood singing "Proud to Be an American" (and since that song is now stuck in your head, let me say "you're welcome"). It being the fourth and all, I even sprang for a casserole dish at the Monoprix (our kitchen doesn't come that furnished, apparently) and sacrificed one of my treasured cans of Dixie Chili to make Dixie Chili dip. Man, that stuff is addictive; even though I had to swap out the generic orange cheese for emmental, most of the pan was still consumed by three people. And it tasted fantastic thusly:
I consider this to be an apt demonstration of the cultural melding that I am experiencing here: Dixie Chili dip on top of a hot dog in a baguette bought at the Eiffel Tower (by AH, bless his heart). Although if I keep melding cultures like this, I'm likely to die of a heart attack before I reach the age of 30.
On the way home, my belly full of salty anguish and torment, I was given a fantastic Fourth of July gift by the Invalides metro station:
In America, we (usually) know when to let terrible bands fade into obscurity, whereas people here are suffering some serious karmic come-uppance and thus are being subjected to the likes of Limp Bizkit (seriously, when was the last time I even uttered or wrote those words? And how long until Fred Durst pulls an Axel Rose and get face-lifted beyond recognition?).
Proud to Be an American, indeed.
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