I didn’t plan on today being the best day ever–I don’t think you can plan that. Besides I didn’t have any plans in mind for the day. In fact, if I weren’t trying to set an irritating example to my sister that every day requires something new, I would have stayed in googling tattoo designs.
I don’t have a tattoo, but I’ve long been fascinated by them. I usually think they’re ugly, too–many people have terrible taste! But, there are some that just look so natural and beautiful on people, so I’m optimistic that they might look alright on me. I don’t want anything bold and colorful. When I get one, it will probably be just black. I have several designs in mind. One that I’m definitely getting–if it ever happens–is Karl Lagerfeld’s signature on my right bicep. I want him to autograph my arm and then have it attacked with needles. Then I’d be a little bit Chanel. Something else I’ve been tossing around in my head is something in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. I haven’t yet decided what. I also think that a portrait of my beloved cat, Tiger, would look good on my left pectoral. You can see that I’m not going for a particularly badass look.
Whenever I get one of these tattoos, my father will probably disown me for about two days. He is adamant against them–thinks that they are one-way tickets to Hell. Quite literally. He quotes Scripture. He doesn’t do that for much.I’m pretty sure he’d get over after he sees how adorable Tiger looks on my chest. Besides, by the time I’m old–never, by the way–I’m sure there will be quick and easy tattoo removals, so I’m not too bothered.
As Jessica was showering, I gazed out the window. It was cold and the occasional dribbling raindrop fell from the sky, not my kind of day. But, I had to get out, so I scrolled through my list of things to do choosing them at random: Le Cordon Bleu, Dalloyau, Colette…
Dalloyau is an ancient bakery in Paris with a location very close to us, so we decided to walk there. On the way, we saw a guy who we were convinced was Joe Jonas on the back of a Vespa. From the side it looked exactly like him, full on, kind of ugly, but from the side, that was a Jonas Brother. Neither of us could decide if we would be excited to see Joe. I think I would be–of all the brothers, he’s the one I find the least annoying, besides, I love making fun of that Rolling Stones cover that they were on a few years back:
“Joe, you’re shirt is soooooooo tight! Can you breathe, Joe? Let me help you get out of it Joe! Joe! Breathe, Joe!” Jessica and I do this frequently–as well as, “Thomas, come to the pool! We need to swim!” But, you had to be watching synchronized diving with us to understand that reference. Anyway, it wasn’t Joe, and on we went. At least, I don’t think it was Joe.
Dalloyau was not hard to find nor was it visually very exciting. It looked like a moderately upscale bakery. I ordered a raspberry macaron and a chocolate macaron–these are the flavors I use to test bakeries. They are common and really show the quality of your ingredients. I wouldn’t have ordered the macarons normally, but they claim that they have been using the same recipe for over three-hundred years. So, they say they’ve been baking macarons since the early 1700s. I have my doubts about this, but I’ll go with it. Jessica had a strawberry tart. The man was friendly, but the second I stumbled over my French he switched to English and I couldn’t bring him back. That frustrates me. The woman at my bakery on the corner will go out of her way to correct my grammatical mistakes–I appreciate that.
I put on my best investigative glower and raised the raspberry macaron to my mouth. I wish I had a monocle–that would really strike fear into the hearts of bakers whenever I tested their shops. (One of my dreams, by the way, is to try all the 1263 bakeries in Paris and review all of them. Perhaps, I will call the website dedicated to this http://www.thefearsomemonocle.com I’m already deeply in love with that.)
So, I took a bite–perfectly aged. The top was still crisp and the insides gave way easily. The raspberry filling was good. Next, the chocolate. The texture was the same and the ganache was very nice–smoky almost and well garnished. I was disappointed that I couldn’t use any vicious phrases like “Dalloyau made Ladurée look like a haven of good taste.” Though, that might only be a vicious phrase to me.
We took the Métro to the next stop–another bakery. But, of course, they were closed. This happens all the time. Their website says that they are open everyday until eight–but their door says, in paint, that they are closed every Tuesday. Shouldn’t that be on the website?
We were close enough to walk to Le Cordon Bleu, so we did. As we walked, we walked right into a Pierre Hermé shop. If little old me had known this was so close to where I went to school every day I would have been a lot fatter and a lot poorer. Of course, we went in. I tried three macarons today: jasmine, rose, and something so bizarre that I couldn’t not buy it–asparagus and hazelnut oil. The staff was friendly and whispery, as they are in every shop I’ve been to of his, and off we went down the road.
We stopped, out of sheer curiosity and slight urge of nature, at one of the public toilets. These are large, futuristic devices that are completely automized and are sanitized after each use. I’ve always had a slight terror of them, but I am open to all experiences so in I went.
I imagine we will all be peeing like this in the future. A voice booms through a speaker welcoming you to the toilet. That’s a bit awkward. After you do your business you can select the type of flush you want, from a little flow to a geyser. I chose the most ecological option and then the voice thanked me for saving the Earth. I felt quite proud. The water starts running and soap is dispensed automatically. Then the hand dryer turns on and then out you go.
Jessica saw a Pizza Hut and almost died. When I told her that they deliver, I think she popped a vessel in her brain.
Soon we were at the school and I saw that a Starbucks was being built on the corner–they should have done this years ago! I am not a huge fan of Starbucks, but I do enjoy the fact that they have consistently decent coffee. I don’t get coffee in Paris, I make my own, because it is renowned for being terrible. I was excited for the future students of my alma mater. The coffee machine at the school was terrible.
The very friendly woman, whom I recognized (but had forgotten the name of), led me to the new boutique in the school and I chose an espresso set. It was just what I wanted. Blue and white checks with a saucer. Twenty-two euros, too! She saw my little bag of macarons and asked where I bought them. We started chatting about Pierre and I let it drop, like I do, that they are good but mine are better. She seemed surprised by this boast and I said that I had been a student. She made some motion with her hair and said that she thought she had recognized me. That made me happy–I like being memorable. Then of we went to the Métro.
Jessica was losing steam and had forgotten that we had one last stop to make–a super trendy boutique called Colette on the Rue Saint-Honoré. She mumbled a bit when I told her we were still going, but away we went.
We decided to walk along the Rue Saint-Honoré instead of the Rue de Rivoli. The Rue de Rivoli is covered in tourists and in tourist shops–if I had only known that earlier, I could have saved a lot of time and done a lot more window shopping during my previous visits.
“You know, I’ve read that Karl comes here often.” I said to Jessica.
She sighed, “Aren’t you done with Karl, yet?”
I blinked, confused. How could one be done with Karl?
I changed the subject, “Maybe Dita will be here instead, she’s in town. You know what she looks like, right?”
“Yes,” she muttered.
We walked up the road a bit further and finally spotted Colette. It was very white, very trendy, and very intriguing. I enjoyed myself looking at watches and gasped with joy when I saw the watch I have been wanting since I first saw it:
I am obsessed with it. I love everything about it. I must have it on my wrist. And, I will buy it if I have enough money next week.
As I was browsing the displays, I saw Jessica stop suddenly. Her clumsiness isn’t altogether unusual, so I didn’t pay any attention. I heard a voice say, “I’ll be here until the end of June,” and though to myself, don’t share your plans…we don’t care.
Jessica turned to me, “Ben–is that Dita?”
I turned instantly and gay gasped, “Sweet baby Jesus!” Standing not ten feet from us was a tiny woman with raven black hair, red lipstick, and porcelain skin. It certainly looked like her, but I wasn’t yet convinced, so we got closer and closer. I was standing right next to her and I was sure it couldn’t be, but then Jessica bumped me and whispered, “The bag!”
I looked down, the woman was carrying a bag with the initials D. V. T. We both looked at each other and silently squealed. We stalked her for awhile–I had to have a picture, but every time I got close enough I started shaking and couldn’t do it. Finally, Jessica found a courage I never knew that she had and approached Dita. I didn’t hear their conversation. I saw Jessica frantically waving me down and I hurried to Dita where she stood next to me for a photo. She was so tiny. I mumbled, like a lunatic, “Thank you, thank you, it’s so nice to meet you.” She looked up at me and said, “It’s nice to meet you.” My eyes went wide and I walked away. Jessica and I were hyperventilating–we rushed outside. It was amazing. (Imagine if it had been Karl, though. I would have dropped dead.)
We hurried back to the apartment, squealing and squawking about how awesome we were and how lovely Dita was and just being overly thrilled with ourselves.
Back in the apartment, we were both starving–seeing celebrities can do that to you. So I ate my macarons and made a bowl of soup. The macarons were all good, the rose was my favorite. Asparagus was fascinating–it reminded me of the sesame macaron I had previously.
As Jessica took a nap, I threw open the windows and gave the street and neighbors a one-man version of Funny Face. I know they appreciated it–judging by the looks I got from the street when I sang “How Long Has this Been Going On?” sitting in the window with a whimsical look on my face. My next concert will be Evita.
Once the sun set, I wanted to film a scene for my Top Model audition tape. Jessica grouchily put on her shoes and off we went. We had trouble focusing the camera and once we finally had a clear shot I got ready to make a speech to pluck Tyra’s heartstrings. The minute I started, a drunken man wandered into the shot saying, “Picture? Picture?”
I thought he was trying to be nice and take a picture of Jessica and me. I said no, but he didn’t go away, he wrapped his arms around my waist and motioned at Jessica to take a picture of him with me. She pretended to to do so. Then he started to try to kiss me–I should have been prepared for that–I can’t help it that I’m sex on legs. I shoved him away and we walked off, but not before he said to me, “Hey, I like you.” Of course I was flattered, but glad to be rid of him.
Jessica was jealous that the men are naturally attracted to me. I told her that she could try being lesbian. I think she will ponder my sage advice. We finally shot the scene, but when I played it back in the apartment, there was too much wind and the sound was muffled. We did catch me getting molested though, so, it wasn’t all a loss.
I wasn’t tired, so I finished watching Agnes of God. It was a great movie. The scenes featuring stigmata reminded me of a previous idea of mine and I think I can finally get my novel wrapped up. Very excited.