France is Pascal (and mañana, Montreal)

Her English stinks.

My French, como sé dice, pee-yew.

She eats snail.

She bikes like a turtle.

I need rap to workout and fuck.

She literally still jams to Mick Jagger like it's new music.

Are these people serious?

They watch cartoons like it's regular TV.

They smile for sugar and laugh about bread.

Cheese is dessert and sex partners are friends.

If there's anything we share, it's love.

If there's anything we can't, it's a tab.

She sort of insisted, one time, we go halfsy.

Third-ish date.

What a shitshow.

The front of house came out to see if everybody was alright which was clearly some kind of Michelin Star talk for "is there a problem here?

"Cause if there's a problem here, we can take this outside."

We don't even speak the same language.

"You don't even speak the same langguagggge."

"I know, Ma."

"I'm jussayin, Jorge."

Maybe going Dutch is a thing here.

We're closer to Holland, after all.

If it is though--meaning girls don't mind paying their way through dates, and half of this city has constellation marks from the Michelin Tire mascot--maybe I shouldn't settle down?

Paris is a town for lovers.

New things.

Except tripe.

That shit ain't fish.

And nowhere in Wikipedia is it listed as an aphrodisiac.

Whatever, I'm in Montreal next week and I'm totally getting the cheese fries.

Sorry.

Poutine.