Have I mentioned that France is lovely? It is. It’s full of French people, which is an awfully good thing.
The French seem to live up to only some stereotypes. It is disappointing that they don’t wear stripey shirts and berets. I have yet to see anyone pushing a bicycle while a chain of onions hangs from their neck. And when you look over their shoulders, you only see the Eiffel Tower in the background if they happen to be standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, which no-one in Strasbourg ever seems to do.
But some things are true. There are an awful lot of skinny, beautiful people here. Last summer, I rhapsodised about the beauty of the Slovenes. French beauty is paler and less substantial. The Slovenes are like great sequoia trees, while the French are more like orchids. Unattainable. Otherworldly. Wantable.
I’m almost sure “louche” is a word. I think it might just be another word for a French person. They don’t slump forward like the rounder Irish. They lean back. They stretch like waking cats. And they smoke. Boy, do they smoke. These are, for me, the elements of loucheness.
Speaking of smoking, I haven’t smoked in two whole months. I was very stressed out last week, and I didn’t even really consider smoking. This is lucky, because French shops appear to operate at times and in places that suit their owners and not the general public.
There is a lot less to write about in not smoking than in smoking. I didn’t smoke today. Nor did I eat cat food. Or gouge out a sailor’s eyes. Or darn socks. Or swim the Channel. Or do the bassanova. Writing about things I don’t do totally sucks.
But I still need to stop and give myself a pat on the back. After well over a year of Project Connor, I finally have something concrete to point to. Look! I’ve done this!
I’ll post again tonight. Lots to tell and I only had a short break, during which to write this.