Fezzik In Paris

Two Americans, three cats, and too many places named "de Gaulle"

Contrary to the potential implication of the title, this isn’t a tale of woe; we’re not feeling alienated, lonely, isolated, or fantasizing about being the main character in that Folgers commercial that’s (probably still) being aired, despite the fact that Peter finished college, married his sweetheart, became a banker, developed a coke habit, voted for Bush the first, cheated on his wife with a stripper, got divorced, voted for Dole, went into rehab, voted for Nader, divorced the stripper, traveled to India, came back, moved to Colorado, and now runs a yoga and spiritual enlightenment studio, fancying himself a scrawnier (read: paunchier and shorter) Tony Robbins.


No, our tale involves consuming a meal in the French tradition (the big meal is on Christmas eve), hosting a fellow expat for said meal, cooking duck a l’orange (kudos go out to the Purrito, who had never before cooked duck), drinking a couple of bottles of wine, laughing at our festive llama, and exchanging gifts.


The decorative spread, complete with festive llama.

Oh, and dressing up Vorenus.

swanky, this one is

Vorenus, in his festive sweater.

No complaints here.

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