What are friends for?
Well, this. Let me extrapolate a little, since I’m supposed to write a full blog post and that one looks more like a tweet — at best: friends are for brunches, chatting and talking sh*t about those who aren’t there. OK, that’s not true: the friends we had brunch with today are so nice they probably wouldn’t have anything bad to say about that idiot who wouldn’t let us through with baby girl’s stroller on the sidewalk. They would simply wait it out: I pushed through. But I know they’re right. In the long run. This intro has turned into a rant real quick, hasn’t it?
Back to brunch: our friends who came to visit were actually friends of my folks first, one of them even being a former colleague of my dad’s — an American guy who studied French for kicks and has traveled in more countries than Kim Kardashian (with less make-up). Incredibly, not only did we also become friends — meaning, he was kind enough to indulge me with my youthful rants (I didn’t start today) — but he and his husband are still way cooler than us, even though they actually reached retirement age, which in itself is a shock. Someday, people are gonna tell me that I’m 40 and that my hair is greying… Nonsense!
In any event, our friends have very rightfully decided to enjoy retirement by traveling as much as they feel like from their native New York (well, not native: no true New Yorker is a native New Yorker…). And they picked Paris as their first destination out of an 18-month forced break from vacationing, for reasons clear to everyone with a laptop, therefore anyone reading this.
— Very happy to see you guys… Been a while…
— Indeed… Just about 2 years, at your wedding near Bassin de la Villette…
— That’s right! You guys danced more than we did that day!
— Perhaps, but not as well…
— That is very kind. A complete lie too — at least as far as I’m concerned.
— Well, you might see a little more of us: David is taking French lessons now…
— Oh, sh*t… Why?
— Well, to be able to read all those French menus they keep handing out everywhere we go…. This is all highly strategic…
— OK. But you can help him translate that stuff…
— He doesn’t trust me with food: every marriage has its limits.
— Oh, I understand. My wife doesn’t trust me with food either.
— But do you cook?
— Touché…
I let them pick for me.