Sacre Bleu!

Sunday, I traveled back into the heart of darkness and went to Mulhouse, France to watch Lance Armstrong put a hurting on them Euro cyclists in the Tour de France. The trip reinforced a number of stereotypes I have regarding the French people.

(My distaste for France is well-known. But every once in a while, I soften up and give it a chance to redeem itself. As always, the French do everything they can to make sure I never return.)

First, they hate our freedom. This is exemplified by the absolutely horrid and uncalled for service at restaurants. Marco and I went to a café and an hour after ordering, we still didn’t even have our Pinot. So we bounced on the devils.

I take partial blame – in knew once I opened my mouth and let the American accent out I eliminated any chance of decent service.

Second, French winos are a whole different type of bum. I saw so many toothless wonders during the day I started to wonder if I had stumbled onto a pirate ship. Or into your mom’s ex-boyfriend convention.

Third, McDonalds France is delicious but again, it takes forever to get your food. But if you speak in German they will just give you everything without a fight.

I suppose the problem lies here: the citizens still think France is the greatest country in the world, which is a cute sentiment. Unfortunately, that ship has sailed, mon ami.

Also warrants mentioning: the bartenders in O’Bryan’s, the main Irish pub, don’t speak English. They also don’t serve Guinness. In fact, Mulhouse has three Irish pubs, all of which are staffed and frequented by French people, making them, in fact, just regular pubs. But at least they do have goofy license plates and other tchotchkes on the walls.

So, my travel ban to the land of Tony Parker posters, soft cheese, thin cigarettes, artists with black and white striped shirts and berets, mimes, les poissons, Pepe Le Pew, T-shirts and sportjackets, haughty attitudes, and the first-round draft pick of your Seattle Supersonics is hereby reinstituted. Again.