The Metro Whisperer

This particular day last week I was sitting in the 4 box, as I call it. Not next to the window, but on the aisle. This is my least favorite seat on the metro because this is where you are most open to people having to touch you. Its really a double whammy of people on the aisle waiting to scrounge your seat and its also the outlet to the people on your inside needing to get out. Being that I have a 36inch inseam, my legs are usually in the way, and almost always over what would be the half way mark for me and my opposite companion. It's not knocking boots. Its more like knockin knees and its not cool.

So there I am, staring blankly as one does when on the metty, listening to itunes on Bond, and then I see her. She comes and sits right in front of me. My direct opposite.
Ok how do I explain this lady? Have you ever just seen someone walking down the street or something and you can tell they're pissed? Like their face is all red or flushed and they're just super mad about something? Their gait is a little faster, a little more determined? Because maybe they are going to cap someone? So OK. This is her. Sitting right across from me. Seething and enraged, face scrunched up and twitching and now looking right at me. She moves her glance from me to the outside window, and then back at me. Its almost as though shes thinking of tossing me over. I can feel it. But what did I do? Ive been here minding my own business for at least 4 stops before she even got on. Ive been having phone text sex with the kiwi, so actually, if anything, Ive been sitting here with perma-grin, and maybe even a little squirmish in my seat. (note to readers: yes this is what people are doing when they are smiling and texting on public transportation) Im happy. Im fine. Whats the deal with this bird??

So she is looking at me. I look back. She is now muttering and mumbling and lost in the glare from her reflection in the window. I then decide to lean forward a touch to see if I can smell any booze or other contaminants on her. She seems to be scent-free. So I continue looking, ok fine, Im staring, but not directly. Im staring just past her, but really Im looking right into her. Im filled with nice and calm thoughts for her. Her distress is making me so uneasy I decide to invoke" the secret." I am going to mentally talk this woman down from the ledge. Just thinking to her "Ok ok ok its gonna be OK. Everything will be fine. Deep breaths..." Then I look away to give her a few minutes to absorb. When I looked back she wasnt shaking anymore and her face had relaxed a bit.

Back to me. Phone text sex, phone text sex... la la la la la..giggle giggle

Back to the lady. She is still on edge so I try it again. "Its ok. Its all gonna be OK. What could be so bad? Look how calm and happy I am? Just relax. Everything is going to be fine..." All this with my distant stare into her. Then- with God as my witness, the woman relaxed her face, she just completely changed gears, and even broke a faint smile. She got up and exited the train a stop later.

It was then that I realized my true calling. I am the Metro Whisperer.

Made in America

When my friend Anthony came over for a visit from New York a few months ago, I asked him to bring me some very important necessities from state-side:
1. A carton of Parliament Lights from Duty Free
2. Airborne Vitamin Tablets
3. Peanut Butter

Did you know that they don't have peanut butter in France? I mean, it's out there. Dont get me wrong. The one time I did see it, it was nestled deep in the Mexican Food section next to the tortillas and fajitas kits. And Im sure this was no accident. The French are expert merchandisers so I could only assume they had no idea what to do with the product when the distributeur accidentally sent them a case of the stuff. They had the Nutella next to the jams and honey and chestnut spread. Right where the PB should have gone, but no. Lonely, in Mexico, by seasonings and other misc items.

So... when I went to breakfast last weekend with Eva and the girls to "Breakfast in America" (not my idea but proved to be fantastic) I was not the least bit surprised to learn that Eva had never tasted Peanut Butter. So we ordered a side. There we are, 4 girls at brunch digging into a cup of peanut butter like christmas day! All the girls adored the peanut butter and I adored the fact that I for once got to translate the menu to them!

It was fantastic! A joyous day pour moi. "She'll have the eggs and she'll have the pancakes..." Which by the way, Eva and Gaelle had never had pancakes before either! The feeling on pancakes was that they were "special."
Let me explain. This is not a good thing. We generally save the word "special" for guys we date that dont have their shit together.
"So do you like him?"
"Eh. , he is special." And thats that. No more will be spoken of him.

So Heres the thing about Breakfast in America. Well actually there are several things. The place is like no other place I have ever seen or been inParis. I mean it really is the epitome of us loud, big mug coffee drinking, poorly decorated, over-ambitious eating Americans. Its just too much food. Plain and simple. Not to mention it took me about 10 minutes to explain what bottomless mug of coffee was and after that I had to explain what a bagel is. Which actually got funny because I ended up using a rather funny hand gesture to demostrate the hole in the middle, nevermind. You get the point. But for me, this was non-stop french/american laughs.

And Even before we had the Breakfast in America experience, I was granted my own coin by a rowdy group following a long night of binge drinking. Back to chez moi we headed for breakfast.
I whipped up a simple egg scramble with mushrooms, tomatoes, avocado and cheese. The Frenchies I was serving had never seen a scramble like this.
"Deeahhne, this is delicious your eggs! This is Made in America!" So now I am often at request for "Made In America Eggs."

Much like a short order cook at a 5 Star day camp, I will continue to tread my way through the plethora of French intricacies. One condiment at a time...