So, what did I buy in France this year?
“If my bag is searched, expect delays. I took the LEGO boat and car and the diabolo.”
French may hold a cigarette or an umbrella when strolling the streets but they seat down to eat or drink.
Feng and I were taking a late-night walk and the group of friends in front of us had just noticed something apparently “gross” in the side street they had just passed.
“Oh, Juliette… he got a splinter.”
“No worries, I’m on it. Mark…?”
“NNNNNOOO! NOOOO! DON’T TOUCH IT! DOOOOON’T!”
“I asked for a… baguette au sésame. But they didn’t understand me at first, because I pronounced it as seSAmee instead of SAYsame.”
“Is he your son?
‘Depends… what did he do?’
“Are we going to the airplane today?”
“It is five o’clock yet?”
“NO! Mark, just go watch TV!”
France has a new president, democracy is safe and I was interviewed live on CBC. Enjoy my deer in the headlights look!
I won’t vote in the second round of the 2017 French presidential elections. I refuse to vote for a candidate or a party I don’t believe in.
The plan was to drive to the French Embassy, cast our votes and go home—hopefully the drive there and back plus civic duty would take less than an hour.
“What are you doing?” she inquired.
“Trying to send a fucking email and get through a fucking server who doesn’t accept fucking attachments!” I replied.
We both behaved like proper French and agreed a mistake had been made and it was the government’s fault.
The joke is on me now—I have just flown with literally two kilos of salt in my luggage.
If Mark suddenly starts sounding like a Pink Floyd song, don’t look for a hidden meaning or the name of the drug he took. He is just overtired, and so am I.
We are a bunch of atheists, I don’t believe in miracles. The camera wasn’t working.
When I was a kid, eating French fries—commonly known as the adjective-free noun “frites”—was a special treat.
This year, I decided to try to renew my passport in France.
Breton culture is taken seriously in Nantes , and so are festoù-noz “(Breton for “night festival”), a fun way to celebrate the regional identity.
I’m not sure when exactly I started to feel like one of those East India Company trading ships when traveling to France.
No one witnessed that perfect mother-and-son moment but I don’t care. It’s already stored into my forever-cool-moments-with-Mark database.
Bienvenue en France. The destination may be considered “glamorous” but my first stop after landing isn’t—I need to go to the restroom.
It’s almost 1 a.m. in Canada. Seven in the morning in France. It suddenly occurs to me how unsettlingly easy it is to kill people if you want to. Just grab a weapon and shot. That’s it.