Paris. (the Metropolis. Not the skinny, rich, “home movie” star.)
You either love it or you hate it. For years I fell into the latter category. My guess is that it’s because I’m such a reactionary person. Years of condescending Parisians placing me in the same category as the thick headed loud guy from Boise in the bermuda shorts who orders a coke with his crepes. Can you blame them? Our sound engineer told me a great story. He’s out to a nice dinner in a local French bistro and the “American guy” with him orders a coke with his meal. Waiter rolls his eyes, returns a few minutes later and slams a coke down muttering, “American Beaujolais” then storms off. Nice. We all have similar stories. The love/hate cat and mouse exchanges between us “silly Americans with your Mickey Mouse!” and the locals are very entertaining. So as an inside joke amongst my band mates and friends I started taking photos throughout Paris holding Starbucks Quad Decaf Soy Mochas, McDonalds Happy Meals, Wearing Mickey Mouse ears, etc. Chalk it up to my dry Upper Michigan sense of humor. I, of course, enjoy Paris now. It just took me awhile to learn how to ask for “direction” rather than “directions.” You would have to live there for years to truly take it all in. On my evening off I had my first Vieux Telegraghe, Chateauneuf Du Pape. 2003, if memory serves. Grenache with a capital G.


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