Fezzik In Paris

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

The pictures below are not entirely from this past Saturday, but the Saturday before, whereien we hopped back on three horses: we resumed tackling activities on The List, we lifted the moratorium on buying books (which, in hindsight, was probably a bad idea), and we had a very expensive-but-lousy lunch.

The item from The List was the Carambolages exhibit at the Grand palais. Situated somewhere between visual stream-of-consciousness and simple curatorial masturbation, any given piece was supposed to be connected both to the one before it and the one subsequent to it. While I am sure that there were other justifications for particular sections of the exhibit, in practice, this meant that there were multiple sections that looped back on heads (or skulls) and eyes.

The less we say about our jaunt to WH Smith, the better; there is now yet another pile of books that will eventually have to be either carried or shipped back to the US.

Suprisingly, we resumed our expensive-and-inexplicably-lousy lunch pattern at the Ladurée tea house. Yes, I know that the name was purchased by a multinational food corporation, and I know that their macarrons are not made in the same shop in which one buys them. I also know that they are often delivered frozen. Fuck you food hipsters (and yeah, seriously, you guys are assholes; if I want to eat something, I want to taste said something. I want to taste my salmon, not wonder why the fuck there are chunks of a fruit that I don’t even like [chutneys: I loathe them] all over what would have been perfectly tasty fish), their macarrons are good (which is not to say that I don’t appreciate a good artisan macarron [passionfruit excepted. What the flying fuck?]. Good macarrons and good chocolate should be indicative of a good place to eat lunch, correct? No, that would be a logical fallacy, and the pedant that mentioned that droned on about correlation not implying causation would be correct, as my lobster club sandwich was bad, and the Purrito’s omelette had a decidedly strange texture. Oh, and Orangina is 8€ a bottle. I would make a sideways crack about the makeup of the tourists that typically eat there, but we overheard quite a bit of French while we were eating there, which would mean that if I were to make said sideways crack, I would feel disingenuous.

This past Saturday, we fell back off of the horse, but we rationalized this deviance by noting that we had partaken of various cultural engagements during the week: we hit the Muse concert on Tuesday and went to a play, Moliére malgré moi, Friday evening. I feel compelled to note that we ate moules after said play, and that I enjoyed said moules, lest anyone accuse me of disliking food in general (surprise: I do).

This past Saturday, we went to Galleries Lafayette (soldes d’été). Very little food was involved.

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