How can they tell we’re Americans before we even open our mouth? At home sometimes people think I’m European. They laugh when they hear I’m from Utah. I don’t get it. Maybe it was the red rubber flipflops and the giant camera around my neck. Or, actually, it could have been my husband, Jay, who couldn’t always think of ‘bonjour’ and instead greeted with ‘bourgeois’! They were patient with us and if they weren’t they just shook their head and said “No! I don’t speak.” I also learned that we overuse superlatives. I agree. In the US, for some reason, everything from butter on toast to comfortable shoes are described as ‘amazing’. When something really is amazing you have to make up a word, like ‘fabtabulous’ to bump it up to where you want it. Our B & B host laughed when I told her the bathroom was fantastique! “You Americans!”, she said. And just then Jay held up a croissant and cheered, “Magnifique!” She liked us.
I snapped pix of almost everything that caught my eye. I did just fine until I met up with this guy. I’d never seen a train conductor quite like him. He was super handsome and dressed to the T! I couldn’t resist. Maybe it was the fact that I was about 3 feet away, but after I took this shot, I got a scolding. The entire train car put their convo’s on hold to hear the rude American girl get a French bum kicking! He was worse than a parent. He finished the lecture, which I was quite receptive to. I mean, I get it, I really should have asked permission first, and apparently, even more so when in France. I think he was sincere in wanting me to stay out of trouble while on my trip, but then, he started it all over again. From the top! The very same lecture, and just as loud. I felt about 7 years old, slumped down in my seat. I don’t like his outfit that much anymore.