I had the good fortune of spending Thanksgiving in Paris for the wedding of my dear friends Shevaun and Mark. In preparation for my second trip to the cultural mecca of France, I did very little beyond packing a bag and locating my passport (I even had to borrow a wedding hat from the bride herself – thanks, Shev!) The only other time I’d been to Paris was last September for my friend John’s wedding (if it weren’t for my friends getting hitched I’d never leave the country), and that was an even shorter stay than this one. So needless to say I had very little Parisian experience to draw from this time around… and it showed.

For starters my French is absolute crap. I haven’t spoken it since high school, and since then I’ve taken Spanish lessons, which has rendered me a piss-poor speaker of not just one foreign language but two. Everything I say comes out in a bizarre blend of SpanFranglish. Nevertheless, in keeping with my belief that when traveling abroad one should avoid English if at all possible (I think it’s rude not to at least try to speak the native tongue), I spent my first few days in gay Paris trying out the French equivalents of the necessary phrases:

-Do you speak English?
-I would like cheese.
-How much does this cost?
-Marlboro Lights, please.

Of course even if I got the words right, which I’m pretty sure I didn’t, my accent was unrecognizable. Every French person I attempted to speak to responded in nearly perfect English, making me feel like a complete nincompoop. This carried on for days until I was at a café with one of the wedding guests, who didn’t know a word of French and was, sadly, relying on my expertise to get us through lunch. Strangely, I remembered the food words quite well, proving once again that when you learn something in school that you actually care about you’re much more inclined to retain it. Suddenly I was reading the entire menu to my friend – everything from buttered green beans to ham was rolling off my tongue as if I was channeling Julia Child. It gave me the confidence I needed to speak French for the rest of the week, such that by the last day (was that only today?) people started approaching me on the streets asking for help. Of course I only responded with “Je ne parle pas Francais”, but I confidently looked the poor bastards in the eye when I said it.

Paris is an absolutely gorgeous city. The streets, people, and landmarks are all formidable eye candy. Even though the weather was gray and rainy for most of the trip, the city still sparkled with beauty. The afternoon before the wedding I visited the Musee D’Orsay with friends and marveled at the works of Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Seurat, and many other legendary artists. I was face to face with Starry Night and Whistler’s Mother, but got too close for comfort when, while trying to avoid a large pack of school children, I tripped and nearly fell into a Manet. Judging by my friend Tim’s expression I was theeeeees close to sending my head through a priceless work of art. Those who weren’t stunned into silence laughed at me while I limped away in shame, and the multi-colored bruise that the guardrail left on my thigh is now the size of a human fist.

That night the wedding guests met on Rue de Montmartre for dinner and drinks and I got a leeetle bit, how you say?, wasted. The possibility that I had traveled 3000 miles to nearly fall into a painting and miss my friend’s wedding crossed my mind as I clutched the toilet bowl in my hotel room an hour before the exchanging of the vows. Luckily Tim is a doctor and gave me a super strength anti-hangover pill, and I made it to the wedding sans incident. That night however I was the only guest present who spent most of the evening shoeless, as I had left my stilettos on the side of the dance floor and subsequently had them lifted by another drunken merrymaker. The shoes were finally retrieved, but not until after I had donned the only replacement footwear I had -- knee high black leather boots. They didn't really match my outfit, but fortunately it was late enough in the party that no one seemed to care.

All in all my trip to Paris was splendid, and for every near-debacle I had ten precious moments in which I didn't make an ass out of myself. I highly recommend to anyone who hasn't visited Paris yet to do so as soon as you are able. I just hope I didn't make things difficult by paving the way for any stupide American remarks when you visit. If I did, je suis desolee, mon ami. Forgive moi, s'il vous plait.