After a delightful night in Burgundy, with the aunt and uncle of The Frenchman, their ridiculously sweet black lab named Olive Noire, and an incredible dinner with the best white wine I’ve ever had from a village called Ruilly. The wine’s bouquet was heady like Paul Gautier perfume, and sweet like the tears of a Republican. I liked it even better than The Frenchman, but he still has forbidden me from telling anyone who the producer of the wine is. It’s our little secret.
Now we’re in Paris. And it’s raining. Noisy. Gawdy with Christmas crap. Not really the Paris I love.
Our apartment complex is located behind a green door on a street parallel to the Champs-Elysees. (Yes, yes — “Behind the Green Door.” Get it? Ha!) The complex is carpeted with ratty gray material, the chipped doors are coated with cheap azure blue paint, and the hall lights go out at annoying intervals. Fortunately, our little studio is nice and clean.
Big movie signs for Eragon mock me here. Mock me, I tell you. No, I do not want to see the film of a best-selling book written by a 15-year-old boy who stole a zillion fantasy cliches and smashed them together like a Dagwood sandwich, fuck you very much.
And now to indulge in some grand love sweet love with my man. Better than the Ruilly wine, yes.