There are so many pretty girls in Paris; at one point last night I thought my head was going to snap off. After dinner, a friend and I went to Place Mouffetard, near to where he’d gone to school.
Several small Bistros surround a little square with a raised center that looks like it should have a fountain. This is a meeting point for local students. Like covered wagons, bikes and mopeds form an almost solid barrier around the seating places in the middle, and there are a couple garbage bins buried among the bikes. As I’ve never seen the locals’ use one, these bins are presumably for the tourists.
It’s a warm night. We drink Sancerre and listen to an oddly satisfying mix of jazzy U2 covers from the Bistro behind us, and “Ma Vie En Rose” from an old man with an accordion in front of us. We watch the girls. Life is good.
You may think me shallow, or worse, writing about girls, given that Paris is one of the most sophisticated, romantic cities in the world, but you have to start somewhere, and I happen to like French girls. They have that certain something, I want to say “Je ne sais quoi”, but that would be pretentious. From the youngest age, they walk like they’re on a catwalk, unlike some English girls that look like they’re on a football pitch, or American girls that downplay their sex appeal. The French girls hold their heads up, with their assets properly displayed.
I try to think of how to describe them, but in the end “simply beautiful” seems to work best. In Paris, statistically, beautiful is the mean, but it’s style that sets the fireworks off. Where else can an average young girl in high heels, string top, wraparound skirt turn a baseball cap into a high-end fashion accessory?
I think I could tell where a woman comes from just by the way she dresses. Not so much what she wears, but how she wears it. French girls seem to haphazardly throw something on, like a scarf, and it looks fabulous. German girls dress very precisely, with the same scarf placed “just so”. The Swiss are also precise, but some take it to extremes, so severe and stylized that it’s like a comic book super villain, and so refined one gets the impression they have no sweat glands. The French girls have a rougher edge, less “prepped” and they’re all the sexier for it. I’ll continue with my studies and report back.
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