Monday May be a Defining Moment

Oh now mom, it's one of those things, joking and kidding and the truth comes out in both... the apartment is on the top floor of a seady hotel next to a junior college full of wannabe philosophers. It cost, in the end 700euro for the whole stay. This amount couldn't have gotten us a two star hotel in Paris.

Beyond this, who really likes Paris? I was trying to make the Parisianne landing soft for Michelle but of course I decided to take the metro into town. This is a hot and sweaty adventure with the heavy bags that we had... Megan can tell you... and you can see by the pic that I didn't pack so well as to blend in... when I walk up to someone they immeadiately speak english and only when I say something in French do they look me up and down, reflect on my lack of Parisianne style, look over at my wife, shake their heads and wonder why she didn't pack, and then say, "OOOHH! You speak French," in English, and then, "I could never have guessed dat you were able..."

Well on the train ride in we experienced what I suddenly feared, with clenched teeth, might be the theme of the whole trip. Our bags were amounst us, in a train alcove with four seats, this I will admit, and a man came up to us and motioned with his finger that he would like to sit down in a seat that had a bag in it. I spoke: "You want to sit here?" I looked around and generally pointed at a number of other seats that were vacant. "Yes, I wan to seet'ere. Your bags go out and I seet'ere. Dat is what you do." So I slowly, allowing the train to gingerly move along and gather a pace, stood and picked up teh suitcases and put them overhead. He sat down and then he moved seats after another couple of stops. Michelle and I looked at one another, pondered this and laughed.

So, I tell you this to make mention of the fact that Paris is the home of the rude, the hateful, the spieteful American haters. And they do not want us here. They tell us this time and time again. We feel like we're shunned. When we ask for help they spit in our faces. Everywhere we go they spit in our faces! All over St. Germaines, the people turn from their coffee drinks and spit... I can't tell if it's because it's too hot to drink Coffee and Capucinos, or if they just look at me in my Green shirt and insantly hate me...

I got to get out of this place. Please, let me go back to Tyler where I fit in and everyone speaks slowly, even if they don't speak my language. At least there they spit because they have chew in their mouths.

I hope that tomorrow, when we meet Guillaume, the spitting will stop! I hope he forgives us for being American and, worst of all, being with him, making him the dsigrace of the community! We're just invading Normandy by train, just like our grandfathers did, giving these frogs the liberte to spit on who they wish.

So, as you can see, it is real work here. Getting from one meeting to the next. From Thursday to Monday. Monday, by the way, should be the day of the commercial dealing. I know the engineers want the deal two weeks ago and are going to send us information next week. But they are waiting, also, on the commercial guy... Christian! He'll spit on me and then shake hands, I'm sure.

Anyway, to leave this email on a good note, to allay the worries you have of us walking through saliva and catching, god forbid, Tuberculosis, I must say, I did find a couple of darn good wines, a Cahor, a Bergerac (Megan will know them) and a Bordeux; and along with that, you can imagine me, if you care to, walking along a beach outside of Granville (the biggest city in the world by Gui's standards... poor country boy), in a speedo that is about to bust at the butt from chlorine corrosion and farts.