Tag: paris

A text message to a friend today from Paris…

I’m not really texting you. But i need it to look like I am for reasons of needing to see if the guy next to me is leaving a tip at the restaurant or not.

Weird, right?

Well, the French are fucking confusing.

It says on the credit card receipt that there is “service included.” And yet, when you ask the waiter about leaving a tip, or if it’s included, they say “it’s up to you!” With a dismissive shrug of the shoulders.

They could either be fucking with us, or being restaurant-polite. But either way, I hate to fuck people over.

Oh he paid. He’s not leaving anything? He’s packing up his credit card in his massive wallet? I think he didn’t tip.

Holy shit. Mystery over!!!! Merci fucking boucoup. That shit’s been bugging me the whole time.

The ghosts of Paris past

Bon jour from Paris!

It’s strange how familiar it all seems to me, even though the last time I was here was 15 years ago. But the buildings, the sounds, the street signs, the taste of a cafe au lait… all is just how I remembered it. And it’s bringing up memories of a younger, less anxious but more naive version of me.

Today we’re going to be seeing some landmarks I hit up on my first visit, I wonder if I’ll see the ghost of that Megan — the one who once wrote this — as I walk to the Eiffle tower, or wander the halls of the Louvre.

The last time I was here it was also post-big-breakup. Being a world away from my old life made me feel lonely and long for that companionship again. But it also showed me how much of the world I hadn’t experienced yet, and how much I longed for more freedom. I remember feeling torn between two choices — return to my old life of familiar dysfunction, or embrace a new life full of scary-but-potentially-awesome experiences. I think ultimately, because of that trip to Paris, the loneliness and the siren song of the familiar won out (I got back together with that awful boyfriend upon returning home).

This time, however, I’m enjoying Paris all the more because I’m still able to be connected to my life back at home. Such a vast difference from the last trip where I was ever looking out for internet cafes, desperate for an email from someone — and feeling sick and untethered when there was no contact from home.

Cell phones and wifi have pretty much changed that whole experience. Some part of me wonders if I’m jaded because of that. The old Megan was in awe of every site, and every non-American person, place, and thing. Today, I’m in fucking Paris, and yet I’m constantly checking my phone to see what others are up to back at home?

First things first: cafe au lait and chocolate crepes, get inside of me!!! I had forgotten how truly AMAZING the coffee is here. #paris #coffee #crepes #meggyfinparis

A photo posted by megan finley (@meggyfin) on

But I wouldn’t change for the world that Ken was able to keep me calm as I searched for my mother in the airport. I was able to comfort someone I care about as he dealt with a family emergency. And another friend filled me in on his dating life at 4am, when I was wide awake and my mother was not. I even hit that timing sweet spot so I could interact with my co-workers during my evening/their morning. I’m also sharing my sites on Instagram with lovers and strangers alike.

I guess I’m already seeing and feeling the difference in 2000 Megan in Paris and 2015 Megan in Paris. This trip is feeling less like “OMG BIG LIFE CHANGING EXPERIENCE!!!” and more like “Yup, change and new experiences are just part of my life now.” Which feels awesome.

Now I’m must get dressed, and venture out into the brisk morning to hunt down more delicious coffee, and introduce my mom to the Louvre… My goal: To get a better look at the Mona Lisa. Last time I was here I was too short to see anything through the crowd of people gathered around it. This time, I’m not going to let that opportunity pass me by again.

Cellophane Birds

All around the base of the Eiffel Tower there were people selling various trinkets — from Eiffel Tower key chains, to models of the tower measuring from 2 inches to 2 feet. My personal favorite was the little bird-shaped airplanes that, when wound up and let go, would flap their cellophane wings and “fly” (though it was more like a slow fall) in circles to the ground.

The latter was the biggest hit with the children. One could hear them ask the same question in many different languages, “Will you buy this for me?” But they all seemed to communicate with the same international sign for ‘listen to me!’ by yanking on any loose piece of parental clothing.

There was a man with a third degree tan lying, propped up against a low wall, to my left. All around him were bright pastel paintings of the Eiffel Tower, which he had laid out on the pavement as lackadaisically as he looked (and painted).

A child with a ring of jingling Eiffel Tower key-chains approached me, shaking it noisily with a hopeful and questioning smile. But she ran off to find a new possible buyer when I matched her fake smile and shook my head non.

A slow falling cellophane bird caught the sunlight as it circled above the hot concrete. Mesmerized by this, I never noticed the pastel painter until he charged by me, almost knocking me over. I scoffed in annoyance, and went to turn my attention back to the Cellophane Bird Man, but he was gone too.

My eyes and thoughts naturally went back to the tower, when a teenage boy sitting on another short wall cupped his hands over his mouth in a mock megaphone and yelled, “Police! Police!”

Suddenly, the sound of heavy running footsteps resounded around the tower and the adjacent park; sounding like a flock of pigeons taking off in flight.

Some nearby vendors made like the pastel painter and bolted past me. And then I noticed that it wasn’t just happening around me. Through the other side of the tower, permit-less vendors weaved through confused tourists like water flowing around rocks.

I spun around to see the sights behind me and then noticed the comically compact police van. Sandwiched between two officers and being dragged like a naughty child was the pastel painter; his ugly paintings still tucked under his left armpit. The officers loaded him into their vehicle and, seeming content with their capture, the petit police van zoomed off; leaving the Eiffel Tower empty of cellophane birds.

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