[Ze following dialogue ees translated from ze Frainch. Et should be read with in Aenglesh but wis ze haivy Frainch accent]
Mon Dieu, Margaux! Every year it happens. You would think as long as I have been working in the Metro, I would be prepared for the onslaught of the American Tourists in the spring, but no I tell you no, I will never get used to it. They seem always to catch me off guard. Take this year, for example, I guess I was lulled to the verge of sleep about their presence. Oh, no, no, I know they are here always—like the rats, you cannot get away from the Americans, ever, I know. But at the beginning of spring when their numbers in Paris are smaller, my eyes simply close to their presence—and my ears, my God, I don’t know which is worse, the ones who attempt to speak French and butcher it, or the ones who cannot be bothered to know a single word of French--yet, in an attempt to be understood, they simply keep repeating the same thing over and over again, each time a little louder and a little more slowly as if you were an idiot child or as if louder and slower would help someone who did not speak their brutal, ugly language understand it. I tell you it has no music.
What? Yes, but of course I can speak enough English—at least well enough to communicate with these people about their silly, simple needs. Why? Why what? Why won’t I speak their language with and to them? Maybe I am just perverse, but I really believe it is because I have met too many of them who refuse to learn even the simplest of French phrases to try to navigate the capitol of the most civilized and historic city in the Western world. Please! What is that phrase I have heard the Americans use to express extreme disbelief? Oh, yes, “It wouldn’t hair-lip them!” Forgive me, Margaux, that is truly a rude thing to say, but they make me so angry.
I guess I also set myself up for it with the five consecutive days that I had off from work last week. I pampered myself absolutely. I went to see Stephane, the colorist at Cizors and had my hair coloured and cut. Do you like it? Yes, I know it is a little extreme, but that is how Stephane has earned his reputation. He achieved this look by coloring not little pieces of my hair—as in highlights—but by coloring entire ropes of it. Then afterward, he cut it off short, achieving this kind of blended polka-dot blond effect on my more natural brunette base. Indeed it is short, which is just what I wanted. It gets so warm in the Metro as the summer progresses—the warm air whooshing up the tunnels and through the little hole in my cubicle where the customers slide the change through; I want it short and simple so it can dry naturally on its own before I go to work. I sweat like a pig otherwise. As Stephane said, with this color and cut, I will not meet myself coming and going this summer. Yes, as you say, it is unique.
Anyway, as I was saying, on my five days off, I pampered myself. Those glorious days culminated when I went to the flagship Louis Vuitton store on the Champs-Elysees. I was passing the shoe department when I caught sight of these incredible high-heeled strappy sandals. I tried to resist, but in the end I simply could not. They were calling my name. There is not other way to explain my impetuousness in buying them. Do you like them? Yes, they are divine, aren’t they? Exactly. It’s the heel that is so different. Not a spike and yet not a monstrous clunky thing either. Me, too! I love that the heel is the width of the back of the shoe and square, not tapered so that I feel like I am walking around on a four-inch ice pick. Yes, yes, a good solid heel and nice wide straps to hold the foot in like a vice. Good for climbing all those Metro stairs without worry of tripping and sprawling.
So, with my new hair-do and my new shoes, you could say I felt brand new from la tete aux pieds on Monday morning when I went to work. Then, it happened, the encounter with the Americans that made me know it would be a long, long summer.
To be continued….
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