‘Ouvert en Août’. It means open in August and I just saw it written in massive letters in the window of the local sex shop. So supposing you were to misread it and thought it said ‘over and out’ then you might assume the last gas mask had passed across the counter and boohoo into your gimp mask for the rest of the day, when in actual fact you can go get as many anal beads and dildos as you can fill a basket with all month long if you so desire (the French for dildo is godemiché, which is far more romantic. With a name like that it’ll probably take you out to dinner too).
At the risk of repeating myself (I’ve actually been in Paris at this time of year for the last three years), establishments need to spell it out in big letters that they’re open because so many shut up shop for the month and take off to the south. So while the city does the most feeble impression of a nuclear winter ever, it does mean there’s peace and quiet in abundance. The cliché goes that Paris en printemps is the best time of year to visit, though I’d take August over it any time. Call me peculiar but I love a deserted city. Hell is other people, after all, and it was a Frenchman who said that. Although they don’t always show it, Parisians must really like each other if they all want to go on holiday together and cram onto the beaches of the Côte d’Azur, though you won’t catch me and Jean-Paul Sartre on the annual great summer diaspora; we’ll be back in Paris writing some deep shit and wondering where to get a coffee.
Claire had some friends over last night so we went to this lovely little Italian on Rue St Maur, though when we got there the waiter warned us that about a third of the ingredients on the menu weren’t actually in stock as it would be the last night of trading. After some trial and error we opted for four minimalist pizzas. Those ordered by Claire and I were supposed to be different, though with the lack of ingredients they tasted pretty much the same, and I’m coming to the happy conclusion in my old age that less is more where pizzas are concerned. Sometimes all you really need is a good bog standard margherita. I bet you’re thrilled you took the time to read this blog with revelations as profound as this. Like I say, deep shit.
Also, the waiting staff were uncharacteristically entertaining, and actually yesterday seemed to be friendly everywhere in customer service land in Île-de-France. Either things are slowly improving, or more likely everyone’s jubilant because they’re all about to fuck off on holiday for a month.Follow @jeres