... who travel with men in France.
- Yes, it is true… especially in France, waiters are snobbish. We have noted this with great respect and countless nods, your detection of this secret... très très diabolique, these Frenchies, eh. Now, could we get over it... please? French waiters really don't get kicks out of serving you slices of warm wholegrain bread, with flavoured olive oil and 8 varieties of artisan cheese like all your friends said they would. The waiters in the cheap, touristy restaurants that we usually visit get kicks out of 'phhhrrooofing' and saying "Je comprends pas" to English speaking women with fake Louis Vuitton bags.
- In France, the people speak French. If you don't speak French and they don't speak English, they don't have a problem. You have a problem. Recall previous point about getting used to it, over it, under it, whatever.
- If you are visiting a town next to the Alps with a chateau on a hill, and also plan to visit the village of Èze located 2000 feet above sea level, it might be a good idea to bring along shoes for walking. Not heels. Not as the only pair you're bringing along because you "pack light and that's soooo cool". Not for a place that has for its main attraction, Le Promenade Des Anglais.
- If you like the charming, rustic marketplace, you should also like the rustic fruits sold by the charming French farmers. And no, even though us men might know ticket-buy-worthy French, we don't ask "Can you wash this fruit for us, please?". Not to French farmers. Nope. Nada. Non. Especially not after you gave us that "eeeek"sy look when we bit into the ripest, juiciest, tastiest unwashed figs of our lives.
- Caramelized almonds in a supermarket aisle won't be as fresh as the hot ones we bought for you from a roadside stall run by an unusually, happy Italian grandpa on a cold, windy day. Which you happily ate up after turning up your nose at, to start off with. Declaring this discovery of yours, that they aren't as fresh, doesn't exponentially increase our estimate of your reasoning powers.
- We find it puzzling when after we've explained what options are there to explore in Town A (which, incidentally, happens to be the town we're in), you suddenly look up after breakfast and go "Let's do Town Z, yaaaaaar"... what exactly does this mean? That you don't like Town A? That you want to visit Town Z? Wander around it? Eat in it? Gamble in it? Dance or sing on its roads? Or is there some deeper Freudian thingy that we've missed here? This puzzling feeling does get exacerbated when we ask you "Uhm... Er...ok, so what's in town Z?" And you say "I don't know" as if that explains everything. However, we are willing to ignore/forgive/move on through such events as we consider the eternal human desire to explore the unknown. Us men get cheap thrills out of such uncalled for forgiving stints.
- If you like something in a shop window, it might be a good idea to check the price before you ask the shop-keeper for it. And not after she has packed it up for you. And no, at this point, we don't translate "I don't want the thing you packed for me, the one I asked for, because I think it's too expensive, now that you've printed the bill"
- If you don't like art, it's perfectly OK to say "I am not really interested" when we consider the idea of visiting museums in a region that Van Gogh, Matisse and Chagall breathed, painted and lived. Rather than wondering thrice in 5 minutes about how far the museum is, commenting on the inferior quality of hot chocolate at the museum cafe and finally, at the museum admission, turning away from the lady who says "7 euros, please" to tell us "I think I will go for a haircut rather than do this". As Chagall spins desperately in his grave, we too, are tempted to, right there in front of that very lady.
PS: At this point, it isn't mightily endearing to raise your eyebrows and say "How long are you going to take at 'this' place?"
PPS: Maybe it would be a better idea not to declare intentions of getting a "classy French haircut" rather than admitting later that the French charge atrocious rates for haircuts and that discovery kept you away from the salon which you headed to when you found the museum too expensive.
PPPS: DO NOT ask us why we sob when, after all of the above, you declare that you "just want to leave it all and start an art gallery" in a medieval village in France. It's a man thing, we sob, we suffer... all for art.
- If you insist on having a conversation on media freedom, the role of regulation in the private sector and the drivers of economic growth in developing countries on a warm sunlit evening in a plaza flanked by a 18th century church as we sip a particularly, pleasant cuvée of the Côtes Du Provence... well, what can we say, let's. But it just might be worth your while to consider briefly before we start, the knowledge you possess on these topics, the sources you gained it from and your ability to remember those sources. Depending on "My uncle said so", "I just know it" and "I don't remember" doesn't count as meaningful evidence. Much as we would like to admit to many meaningless things in the cause of chivalry, this time... no, we can't.
- Despite being regular fountainheads of stunning wisdom, we really do not know...
- Why French beaches don't have sand
- Whether you should get fake-looking lavender soaps or garish souvenirs with "Produce De Provence" stamped on them for your friends
- Why French roads change names at junctions (Refer to previous point about the deliberately diabolique French)
- Why people don't get electrocuted when they step on tram lines
- Why restaurants don't serve artisanal (that infernal word!) cheese the way Jamie Oliver promised that they always did in the South of France
- Why the pianist who works magic on a rented piano at Place Massena as he floats, crawls, creeps his fingers around the keys, hasn't become famous across the world (but you get brownie points for deep thoughts)
- Why vendors insist that you MUST pick something after you spend 25 minutes quizzing them about prices and tasting free samples.
- Why the modern, anarchic artist has splashed his blood on the canvas and packaged his shit in a jar (but we might be able to give it a decent shot if you let us listen to the audio guide rather than asking us to come with you to the museum shop)
- Reading 33 pages of a 350 page novel may not quite place you in an optimal position to declare with critical airs that "it's a kind of a slow book". Why spoil a nice sunset on the French Riviera? Let’s not.
PS: But since it looks like we MUST, please consider the fact that a book that involves 3 grieving Jewish men at the sunset of their lives and has a blurb describing itself as a "funny, furious and unflinching look at friendship, loss and growing older" is unlikely to be fast... It will not accelerate like an Aston Martin, probably doesn't have heaving hearts à la Mills & Boon and may not twist & turn like Jeffrey Archer used to in his pre-prison days. Even if the heavens parted and it did any of that, maybe not in the first 33 pages? Ah, but you beg to differ, don't you... Your point being that it should.
PPS: Doubtless the idea greatly excites you, but suggesting a "cozy, classy restaurant" that you spot along the Côte D’Azur as a possible venue for our next book reading session doesn't help obliviate our memories of the time that you showed up without reading the book. Oh, sorry, make that "without buying the book".
Now, which part of this is confusing?
NB - Obviously, this is an entirely fictional take on an imaginary trip with impossibly indelicate women. We all know how reasonable ladies usually are in real life. So there.
