I have baby makin’ hips. I know this, I appreciate this (or will, supposedly, someday), I embrace this. What I didn’t know? Not only do my hips not lie, they could be alternatively used as a lethal weapon.
Here’s the story: my friends and I decided to see a French movie last night at the most amazing little French cinema (at which I am now a member, see official card complete with picture below), and we wandered over to see what was playing, etc. After we picked a movie, we headed back to the restaurant area to grab some food and waste some time. Since I am extremely observant (ahem, easily distracted), I wandered through a small parking lot to catch a better glimpse of a courtyard I saw, but as I was running back to catch up, the corner of my hip bone made contact with a (may I say, quite beaten up ALREADY) car, and broke a bit of the tail light off. Once again, MY HIP BROKE THE CAR. May I say, events like this don’t do much for one’s self esteem, especially when one has been consuming her fair share of France’s yummy pastries. There was no one on the street, and I don’t believe the owner would even notice, but still. And, as any good friends would do, mine took every opportunity to remind me of said (mis)adventure. All in the name of “making sure I never do it again.” At least I know now that if someone tries to attack me on the street, I’ll just stick my iron hips on them and they won’t stand a chance.
Speaking of French men and the street, these guys are FORWARD. From the very endearing (“Vous avez tres belle, mademoiselle!”) to the scary (a car full of guys pulling over, a bench of men clucking), the men here are certainly vocal about their feelings!
However, despite the way I feel about this when trying to walk back at night, in general I love the way that the French love: kissing on the bridge, snuggling on the sidewalk, standing in the middle of the biggest market day in Tours hugging, the bise… It’s catching.
Just like my hips.