The Alliance francaise, like effectively everything else in Paris, is surrounded by apartments. Last week, while waiting in the hall for our respective classes to begin, the Purrito and I found ourselves staring out the window and into a woman’s apartment as she brushed her cat. As we watched, she gingerly brushed the grey long-haired cat who happily sat there, and did not run away, roll into a position so as to deny access to the shedding zones, or otherwise attempt to deface the person wielding the brush. After she brushed him, he happily rubbed against her knees, clearly appreciative of the attention and love that he was being showered with. Before finally disappearing deeper into her apartment, she brought him a toy and he played with it. Throughout our invasion of their privacy, the Purrito and I remarked at how loving the cat seemed to be, how much he seemed to appreciate her, and how little he seemed to want to seek vengeance on her for putting him in a sky crate, forking over $2k (per head), and flying his furry ass 7000 miles so as to be with his clearly uncaring owners.
Witnessing the interaction between that cat and his owner, we felt incredibly unappreciated.
Thus we decided to cheat on our cats.
Our trip to the musée des arts et métiers was cut short by our appointment for the café des chats, which is, as one might imagine, a café with cats running around. After finally managing to locate it’s near-literal hole-in-the-wall location, we entered, sat down, and were more or less promptly ignored by both the server and the chats.
While we would eventually interact with several of the felines due to our strategic positioning in front of an apparently-favored window, we were somewhat arbitrarily denied meaningful food (despite the table behind us receiving what looked like pretty decent things to eat). Having almost reached the low-sugar point of no return, I settled for a rubbery, largely tasteless muffin and an embarrassingly overpriced bottle of Orangina. The Purrito wound up with a cheesecake of some sort (though she reported that it was edible) and a similarly ridiculously-priced bottle of Perrier.
Defeated, we headed home, where our fuzzy demons proceeded to pretend not to give a damn about the other cats that they had to have smelled on our clothes.
Furry bastards.
Fezzik In Paris 