There is no sex in the champagne room.

Surely you’ve heard how romantic Paris is–or better yet–experienced it yourself. Its winding streets work in tandem with the boulangeries and flower stands on every corner to reach out to your lover and feed them, buy them a fresh bouquet, or just hold them from one bend in the street to the next. It’s truly the most romantic city I’ve ever been to.

All of this is absolutely wonderful, say, if you have a lover; if you are without, Paris starts to feel like a very charming hell on earth.

There they are!: Beautiful ones, ugly ones, average looking ones all locking lips and intertwining fingers, standing on their tippy-toes to kiss that much longer and hammer home your cellibacy that much more.

Every person I’ve come across has been helpful and tried to work with my complete lack of knowing French but they still have someone to fall into the arms of at the end of the day. For this reason, I will perpetuate the stereotype of the French being nothing but a bunch of opinionated snobs: They must pay for the joy, goddamnit.

Small things noticed:

  • There are a lot of rollerbladers/rollerskaters/razorscooterers here.
  • I’ve heard Phil Collins multiple times in public places.
  • A lot of people wear the bulge (the cologne, not the swimsuit style); I guess because it’s Gautier.

Minor details: