I’m sitting at Open Café in Le Marais, which is the hip and happening 4th arrondissement in gay ol’ Paris. It’s also the gay district.
I love this restaurant. I am only English-speaking person. I am the only straight person. And I am the only woman in the room. Not exactly comforting in a foreign land. However, the Niçoise Salade they serve calls to me. It is so good that I don’t care if I muddle up the language. I don’t care if people stare at me wondering why someone the likes of my straight self is here. I don’t care if there is a sea of men treating lunchtime like it’s a midnight rave with the boom-boom music and sexy lighting. I love the salad. I’d even venture to call it The Best Salad Of My Life.
So while the boys give each other googly eyes, I’m chomping away at my olives, tuna and even anchovies. I don’t know why the anchovy got a bad rap along the way because it’s salty and who doesn’t enjoy a savory food item.
After the salad, I’ll cavort around the hood and shop with my eyes but not with my pocketbook. That’s the thing about being nomadic. Shopping isn’t the same. I buy practical things like socks. With all the walking I’ve done, I’ve worn out every pair of my socks. I also can’t buy sweet wonderful lovelies like these teacups I found in a store before I went down on the Niçoise:
|Did she just write, “Went down on the Niçoise?!” Yes. It’s that good.
I don’t know why I was lured to these tea cups and pots. Maybe it was their Popsicle color palette. Maybe it was the elegant curve of the pots. Maybe it was just me wanting to buy something impractical. Whatever it was, I didn’t just want the them, I wanted the life that went along with them.
The life where I would have ladies over for tea. We would wear flowery dresses and flowers in our hair. There would be a bouquet of flowers on the table. We’d sit in the garden lined with flower bushes.
We’d say things like, “Heavens to betsy!” and “I do declare!”
One of us would mention something steamy about a night in the sack with the hubbie. The prudish one would purse her lips. The quiet one would eek out a gasp, then giggle with her hand over her mouth. The drinker would say, “Hell ya!” like she was Kathy Bates as the Unsinkable Molly Brown in Titantic. Or Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein in Midnight in Paris. Or maybe Kathy Bates as herself at MY tea party. How great would that be?!
Anyway, that’s what those tea cups did to me.
And ya, they don’t fit in my current nomadic life. Plus, I’m typically an under-buyer so it takes a lot of deliberation and even a blog post before I get remotely close to a purchasing decision, unless it’s IKEA and I’ve just moved into a place and have no material possessions, in which case, “I’ll take one of everything, please,” and shove it into my clown car.
Anyway, that’s what those tea cups are still doing to me.
And self is not impressed with self dreaming of a nomadic lifestyle just to be in that nomadic lifestyle to be dreaming of a life with tea cups and tea parties with Kathy Bates.
I bet she’d wear a big flower in her hair. She seems like the type. She’d get all English fascinator about it. And she’d agree with me that the tea cups are lovely and she’d agree that the tea pot has a lovely curve.
I’d tell her what those tea cups did to me.
She’d tell me what the tea cups did to her.
The prudish one would purse her lips. The quiet one would eek out a gasp, then giggle with her hand over her mouth. Then Kathy Bates would say, “Hell ya!” in just the way she knows how to say it.