Paris, infinite walk
The line to get into the Lourve is insane. The Pompidou museum of modern art suits my taste better, anyway. By “suits my taste” I mean, “blows my mind.” Picasso, Man Ray, Matisse, Dalí, and a whole floor of Gehrard Richter.
Asos dress, vintage belt and clutch
This is followed by some of the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted (vanilla and blood orange, a double scoop) and a cheesy spectacle I forgot I wanted to see. There is a bridge where lovers can write their names on a padlock, attach it to the bridge, and then throw the key into the Seine. It’s terribly romantic, but as I walk past them all, I decide it would be a more realistic symbol if a couple were to keep track of the key, taking turns being responsible for it. Anyway, it reminds me of that part in Blue Valentine when the guy says it’s disgusting when couples choose a popular song to be “their song” and have to share it with other couples.
Next it’s another stuffy subway ride, a trip to an Olympics-serious indoor pool (I had to buy a swim cap), and exhaustion.
The next morning is spent domestically. I clean up the hosts’ kitchen while Hugo installs a new faucet I bought for the bathroom. In a moment of slapstick comedy, I had broken the handle off the faucet, leaving it running full blast while I stared in amused panic at the detached part in my hand.
Then there are more cathedrals, more massive views of the massive city. There’s a 7-story Musee de l’Erotisme with a ton of creepy paintings by Saturno Buttò.
In a club called Zero Zero, I sip what Jon’s friend Rémi called the cheapest cocktail in Paris. It’s a little plastic cup of rum and pure ginger that burns in your mouth and warms you up to ideas.