Love and Hate
Last week my friend Matthieu asked me what I loved most about Paris.
Men with baguettes. Women with baguettes. Children with baguettes. Grandmothers with baguettes. Baguettes in patisserie windows. Baguettes filled with jambon et fromage. Baguettes slathered with butter and jam. Whole baguettes, demi baguettes, the smell of baguettes. The thought of baguettes. Knowing I’m never far from a baguette.
And what do I hate?
Shit. Is there a polite way to say dog shit in French?
Matthieu: Donc, on peut dire “crotte de chien”.
I wish I were kidding. The streets are covered in shit. Not just a little shit here and a little shit there but covered in shit. I’ve had to back track on more than one narrow sidewalk as there wasn’t enough room to maneuver around the shit. I’m told that the mere mention of the shit problem is political suicide. Oddly, sadly, most Parisians seem not to even notice that their city is covered in shit.
And so, I live in constant fear of rolling through shit but am consoled by the ever-present baguette.
Click here for Vahram Muratyan’s more elegant depiction of the brown menace over at Paris vs New York.