The Butt of Montmartre
Sacre Bleu! I make my way around Sacre
Coeur...
The Butt of
Montmartre
I was looking for a friend of a friend who owns a glacierie at the foot of the funiculaire at Montmartre. I couldn't find the place. The woman who sold me a strawberry soft-serve cone said, in French, "You don't know the names of the other business owners here, just their faces and the names of their stores."
Vive la capitalisme!
The hill on which Sacre Coeur sits is called La Butte de Montmartre. Unfortunately, on a humid Saturday night, it is littered with beer cans and people. A very drunken Brit swaggered toward me and said, "How about it, baby!?" I squeezed past him, not thinking it was important to point out that I scratched that particular itch with a man named Ken who lives in Essex.
On the funiculaire, a very pushy, obnoxious American woman made love to my love handles with her elbow the entire way down, instead of holding on to a pole. I wanted to point out to her that only a complete idiot wears a wool beret on the hottest day of the year. Hers was the only beret I saw the entire time. I also saw no less than three accordian players, and a man who was an organ grinder, but had an eight-year-old kid with him instead of a monkey, and the boy was not doing any tricks. Maybe they were pickpockets. These musical surprises, which I expect to hear non-stop when I wind up in Hell for shoplifting Playgirl magazines when I was 15, were countered by another musical surprise, which I relate in the following entries.
I was looking for a friend of a friend who owns a glacierie at the foot of the funiculaire at Montmartre. I couldn't find the place. The woman who sold me a strawberry soft-serve cone said, in French, "You don't know the names of the other business owners here, just their faces and the names of their stores."
Vive la capitalisme!
The hill on which Sacre Coeur sits is called La Butte de Montmartre. Unfortunately, on a humid Saturday night, it is littered with beer cans and people. A very drunken Brit swaggered toward me and said, "How about it, baby!?" I squeezed past him, not thinking it was important to point out that I scratched that particular itch with a man named Ken who lives in Essex.
On the funiculaire, a very pushy, obnoxious American woman made love to my love handles with her elbow the entire way down, instead of holding on to a pole. I wanted to point out to her that only a complete idiot wears a wool beret on the hottest day of the year. Hers was the only beret I saw the entire time. I also saw no less than three accordian players, and a man who was an organ grinder, but had an eight-year-old kid with him instead of a monkey, and the boy was not doing any tricks. Maybe they were pickpockets. These musical surprises, which I expect to hear non-stop when I wind up in Hell for shoplifting Playgirl magazines when I was 15, were countered by another musical surprise, which I relate in the following entries.
Posted: Sat - July 10, 1999 at 02:40 AM
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Published On: Jun 20, 2009 07:04 PM
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Published On: Jun 20, 2009 07:04 PM