People have a tendency to give the French a hard time, mostly because of the way they speak French; with disdain, noses pinched, with the corners of their mouths turned down.
Back home, a bulk of the Republican party dismiss the French as effete and cowardly, pilloried in the press for thinking war is bad and that communal rental bikes on the streets of Paris is nothing short of Communism.
But I will give credit where credit is due: Yes, they use communal rental bicycles, but you know what they don't do? They don't wear helmets. Simply Bad Ass.
And they ride them while smoking, too.
In fact, in a country often held aloft as the paragon of European Nanny State tyranny, it's pretty obvious that the French are too busy living to worry about second-hand smoke, emphysema or cancer. No, it's not uncommon to see kindly French grand-meres taking a mid-afternoon cafe or a glass of wine, cigar or cigarette in hand.
Take the food – and, by God, we have – it's a cardiologist's nightmare: brie, camembert and assorted other cheeses offered to end a meal, to have for breakfast, to put on a baguette with a bit of ham at lunchtime.
They've more charcuteries and boulangeries than Manhattan has Starbucks. Seriously, cakes and croissants and baguettes, they're like a food group here; the base on which the French built their Food Pyramid, with sausages, roasts, bourguignons and confits next supporting a clutch of hearty stews and soups with wines, aperitifs and digestifs at the their proper place at the pinnacle.
And Mayor Bloomberg's worried about Big Gulps?
No, this is a city – a country – that's got its priorities straight.
So, while I am pretty sure there's probably an annoying supermarket chain that – like Whole Foods or Trader Joe's – wants to make me feel guilty for not using a recyclable hemp tote bag to bring home my organically grown fair trade coffee, organic vegetables and tough-to-cook ancient grains, it's thankfully not anywhere near our hotel.
Back home, a bulk of the Republican party dismiss the French as effete and cowardly, pilloried in the press for thinking war is bad and that communal rental bikes on the streets of Paris is nothing short of Communism.
But I will give credit where credit is due: Yes, they use communal rental bicycles, but you know what they don't do? They don't wear helmets. Simply Bad Ass.
And they ride them while smoking, too.
In fact, in a country often held aloft as the paragon of European Nanny State tyranny, it's pretty obvious that the French are too busy living to worry about second-hand smoke, emphysema or cancer. No, it's not uncommon to see kindly French grand-meres taking a mid-afternoon cafe or a glass of wine, cigar or cigarette in hand.
Take the food – and, by God, we have – it's a cardiologist's nightmare: brie, camembert and assorted other cheeses offered to end a meal, to have for breakfast, to put on a baguette with a bit of ham at lunchtime.
They've more charcuteries and boulangeries than Manhattan has Starbucks. Seriously, cakes and croissants and baguettes, they're like a food group here; the base on which the French built their Food Pyramid, with sausages, roasts, bourguignons and confits next supporting a clutch of hearty stews and soups with wines, aperitifs and digestifs at the their proper place at the pinnacle.
And Mayor Bloomberg's worried about Big Gulps?
No, this is a city – a country – that's got its priorities straight.
So, while I am pretty sure there's probably an annoying supermarket chain that – like Whole Foods or Trader Joe's – wants to make me feel guilty for not using a recyclable hemp tote bag to bring home my organically grown fair trade coffee, organic vegetables and tough-to-cook ancient grains, it's thankfully not anywhere near our hotel.
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