This morning Colby nearly flipped me over the ramp of our bunk bed, which would have landed my neck at the top of our television, my legs scraping along our metallic clothesline, during which he shouted, "I'll feed you the applesauce!" but I saw where he was coming from; I was in the middle of glamorizing the way the snails that I had sucked from their shells with my mouth the night before were wiggling, reaching out with their little feeler-eyes to touch my tongue and then retract back in.
He wasn't with me when I ate 10 snails. I had brought a box of 12 to Isabelle's apartment. She tried one [and disliked it]; as for the other unaccounted for snail, I had been trying to wrench it out without a utensil and, accidentally exhaling too hard, had shot the snail [still nestled in its shell] to the other side of her kitchen.
Having fattened up on bread and cheese and every pastry I've been attracted to, adding red wine weight to my mid and lower drifts, I was hungry to find a new way to ingest French culture. Reading translated books that drop names like "Faubourg Saint-Martin" and "Nanantatee" excited me but didn't leave me with a stomach ache and a need to lay down.
Colby's other apartment is near a small, foot-street composed of clean-cut, swirling cobblestones. The bakeries and chocolatiers are famous and everyone on the strip is expensively-dressed. Near the opposite end of the blocks is a restaurant called Escargot, signified by a large bronze [smiling?] snail. It gave me the idea to try something French that, unlike tenderized duck liver, is not specifically an animal rights violation. At least, as far as I'm concerned. A plate of escargots at Escargot is 50€ which is the amount I spend on a week of food, including wine if I don't drink out. Luckily, there are snails sold at Picard.
"It says, The Class Of Gastropoda Is Second Only To Insects..."
"See! They're dumber than insects!"
After the attempted murder, Colby had climbed down the ladder and opened up his computer. I assumed he was reading the Wikipedia page on snails. I was still in bed, defending my last dinner.
"It says, Snails Are Eaten In Several European Countries. They Are Not Insects They Are In Fact Animals. It says, If You Are Vegetarian You Are Definitely Not Allowed To Eat Snails..."
"Oh what-ever, what-ever." He was clearly getting creative with the text.
Picard, my snail provider, is a frozen food grocery store. Everything in the store is in a box in a freezer that you can look down upon, so from the street it's a big white room with big white boxes. When I first noticed Picards around town, usually at night, I pointed out how empty they were, usually inhabited by one or two cashiers. I thought how backward they were, seemingly the "supermarket of the future" in a world evolving toward farmer's markets and re-usable containers.
I'm wrong, though! Picard sells frozen vegetables at a reliable quality in a country where most produce needs to be imported. And cheap! They sell frozen soups and hors d'œuvres and 12 macarons for a few euros that simply defrost by keeping them in the refrigerator, and they taste just like expensive bakery macarons. The box of 12 escargots, pre-buttered and spiced green and kept in their coiled shells, was 3€. I shouldn't have even eaten all of them at once! It was more than enough snails for two. But after this morning I've sworn them off because Colby's right; based on their feelers, gastropods have feelings, too.
We were in Greece for these past ten days and it ended up exactly like Summer Lovers with Peter Gallagher. The sun, the strangers offering us cocaine, the all-day-but-extremely-tender threesomes; Summer's lease had all too short a date. You can listen now for the rejuvenated joy in my voice during episode 5 of Treat Me Rough on AUP Radio.
He wasn't with me when I ate 10 snails. I had brought a box of 12 to Isabelle's apartment. She tried one [and disliked it]; as for the other unaccounted for snail, I had been trying to wrench it out without a utensil and, accidentally exhaling too hard, had shot the snail [still nestled in its shell] to the other side of her kitchen.
bitter, but he made it up to me by buying the cutest coin purse in Southern Europe. In needle-point, it depicts an indigenous couple celebrating the harvest or something. Colby later admitted to me that he bought it in the Portuguese airport, but it made little-to-no difference in the way I felt.
Special thanks to Gabby Shaw for alerting me immediately and subsequently breaking my heart. My question to her was, could it have been considered a "walk-in" if I just happened to be there anyway?
Harry Potter reference, but who's making it? Are French parents reading Harry Potter et l'ordre du Phénix and modeling their children after the protagonist, or are these babies reading books? I initially ruled the latter out, as I probably learned to read when I was 13 but as kids keep getting smarter, with European kids progressing at a faster rate than young Americans, I am left to wonder - how would doctors know to prescribe lunettes pour les enfants if not by having them read back a seeing-eye chart?
I went to the store when I saw in the window that they were selling gold bells on thin yellow ropes with plastic beads in primary colors. I bought one for 2€ and wore it home with earbuds plugged into my iPod so I didn't notice that I was ding-a-linging. I've since gotten into the habit of stuffing the bell with paper. But right before I pack my things, I'm going to buy the prettiest evil eye in the store for when I'm back in the US, hanging out in places with like-minded people and a culture of tolerance for anti-religious behavior.
The town I grew up in, Roslyn, originally named Cow Neck and given a Scottish name in the 19th Century, is marketed to be nestled along the Gold Coast of the Long Island Sound. It's home to a large estate of the Frick family, who were major benefactors for the Museum of Natural History and whose home now exists as a museum itself. It was the kind of place F Scott Fitzgerald was referring to and, because of its proximity to my childhood home, I spent many afternoons there - drawing, taking pictures, or just eating fried chicken with the boys. And so, when I showed Mia my new shoes [10€ during January sale season] over Skype, and she responded, "Oh, very Gatsby of you," I agreed whole-heartedly.
movement of the site. There's even a rotating ferris wheel - but you're too big to ride it! For some famous places, with a just a press of a button, visitors can watch a reenactment of a historical event, illustrating its importance and EU symbolism from a hawk's eye-view. Watch now as Mini Europe relives the fall of the Berlin Wall.
The mascot of Mini Europe is an orange turtle who poses as a young traveler, his only home attached to his back. He is your guide to uncovering the Mystére à Mini Europa. And as your navigator, the turtle will be sure to bring you to Austria's Melk Abby, Stokholm's City Hall, and the Monument to Fallen Shipyard Workers in Gdańsk (Poland). He'll teach you the French 
national anthem for the sing-along in front of the mini Eiffel Tower and keep you posted on which mini-monuments you're allowed to touch (hug). 
You won't miss the mini Acropolis or the mini-Big Ben, but most of your time will probably be spent in the Mini Belgium area, which features the park's most expensive model: the Grand Palace of Brussels, whose production cost about 350,000€ in parts and labor.
My deejay group Club Fromage is hitting the decks at la Mécanique Ondulatoire tonight. If you will not be in Paris to appreciate it, don't worry! Tomorrow night is the fourth broadcast of my show - Treat Me Rough on AUP Radio. It can be streamed from a computer from http://aupradio.org, of all things! Until then, definitely download this 55 minute MP3 of last week's show.
