Vive la France!

I live in France.

On a recent trip to Turkey, this declaration prompted a delicious poppy seed celebration of France on flatbreat.

In the United States, by contrast, this divulgence is generally greeted by one of the following reactions:

1) “Don’t they hate us?” Most often asked by males owning multiple golf shirts and at least one SUV. Likes: freedom, Fogerty, the fetus. Dislikes: my own stuck-up ass.

2) “French women don’t get fat, right?” This question is invariably posed by women and often as a pretext to recite some morsel from the best-selling book of the same title.

3) “France is dead.” More specifically, Paris is too expensive, too self-satisfied, too bobo to hold the attention of real artists (Berlin) and adventurers (Bogotá).

4) “…………….” Silence is the most common response to any discussion of current residence. This is true even among close friends and family members. I briefly considered halitosis as the culprit – perhaps folks just wanted me to cut the story short so that they could start breathing again. With the passage of time and much Listerine, however, I’ve come to favor an alternate explanation – that people just don’t know what to ask.

I touched down in Paris yesterday, determined after a three-week Midwestern jaunt to put an end to all this. The details that can’t be conjured keg-side (“How’s France?”) will be dissected here for the viewing pleasure of loved ones and strangers. Perhaps I’ll learn a thing or two in the process and gain a better understanding about this hateful/skinny/bobo paradise that I’ve unwittingly adopted.

It couldn’t hurt, right?