An evening in Paris

I popped over to Paris last weekend to watch the Tour de France. Saturday passed peacefully enough with my host, Anne, showing me the sights of Paris (and me trying my best not to order the Octopuses scrotum at a Chinese restaurant).

Sunday, however, was a different story. After watching the Britain (ahem), Mark Cavendish, win on the Champs Elysees I wondered over to Monmart. Alighting the Metro at Pigalle, I was greeted with the sight of Boulevard de Clichy, the red light district of Paris, lined with sex shops and strip clubs. I made my "hmm...interesting" face and walked along the Boulevard declining kind offers of "monsieur, three girls, only 5 euro". Having come to the end of the Boulevard I took a right for no apparent reason and ended up in a road full of posh street cafes. Finding it difficult to choose a cafe I sat down at one which had a three man (flute, trumpet, saxophone) band playing something which sounded like Siantra's Strangers in the night (actually it went more like, "strangers in the night...don't you dare fucking look at me") and ordered an espresso.

Sipping my espresso I embarked on my favourite activity in Paris - imagining conversations between random people. Two young men were sitting at the table next to mine (in Parisian cafes tables are so close together that when you break bread, crumbs will literally fall on the closest table) and having the following conversation:
Man 1: Things are going from bad to worse. My coffee was half a degree too hot today.
Man2: Yes, my bathroom did not have hot water tonight.
Man 1: The state is neglecting us. Forgetting we have rights.
Man 2: (throwing a fist in the air) We must revolt.
Man 1: Yes we must!
Man 2: Maybe we should check out the strip club first.
Man 1: Yes. That's a good idea.

Feeling a little guilty about taking up valuable space in an expensive cafe with only an espresso I asked for the menu and, in a bout of ill-advised bravado, ordered a plate of snails. When the snails arrived (at which point an American couple close to me got up and left in disgust) I gave them a curious look and tried to figure out how to eat them. This was clearly not an easy task- a green preservatory liquid was oozing out of the shells and I was dipping my bread in it but I refused to believe I was paying so much money for some green tasteless liquid. I sneakily tried to google "how to eat snails" on my phone but the young revolutionaries were looking at me and saying, "look, look he's trying to cheat". I made another stab at the snail, picking up the shell and turning it upside down (not a good idea if you don't want green goo on your jeans) at which point the waiter, unable to bear my incompetence anymore , came up to me and, in quick french, showed me how to operate tongs and picks to eat the snails. By this time the revolutionaries were laughing their heads off and, after devouring the snails (which, for the record, taste like fried mud) I called for the bill with a quick exit in mind.

I eventually left the cafe but the wondrous inefficiency of the French meant I had to wait fifteen minutes for the bill which gave a Nigerian couple next to me (who didn't think I understood English) time to debate whether I was a "man or a boy". I didn't know whether to feel pleased about this and wandered off to find some frogs legs.