Sultan and I took our very own European Vacation last summer (2006) to celebrate our 10th anniversary. We spent 6 days in London and 6 days in Paris. (It's rolled up paper, not an actual smoke before you ask. That's the view from our hotel room.) I wanted to avoid feeling like Clark W. Griswald so we kept our itinerary loose. (We did get to see "Clark Griswald Turnabout" when we were on a double-decker bus tour. Look kids, Big Ben! Parliament!) London was pretty damn expensive. Not a lot of souvenirs coming back home from there. We went to Harrod's and walked around with our mouth hanging open, exclaiming, "Holy shit! LOOK at how expensive this crap is?! Where is the cheap stuff?", most of the time. Didn't look like tourists at ALL. The only people buying stuff were the devout Muslim women, covered in black from head to toe but wearing more makeup than Tammy Faye-Baker (RIP) and sporting more varieties of Fendi, Gucci, and Prada handbags than Jessica Simpson and Lindsay Lohan combined. One crazy bitch was shopping with armfuls of La Perla undies and bras. So let me get this straight, you cover yourself up so other men who are not related to you cannot get a glimpse of so much as a stray hair. You have a chauffeur drive your cloaked-ass around because you are not allowed to drive. You can't vote simply because you were born with a vagina. Yet you are going to give your backwards-ass hubby the satisfaction of seeing you in a $500 bra and panty set?! I would be donning some size 22 granny panties, stained with Hershey skids, and borrowing one of Star Jones old sports bras to show my gratitude for being suppressed like a dog. But that's just me, I am uber-thankful to reside in a country where I can curse like a trucker and wear whatever the hell I want. I know it's not necessarily the husbands, it's the culture, tradition, society, government, blah, blah, blah...So since we were: A) Americans, B) cheap, and C) trying to find one little fucking thing we could possibly afford at Harrod's we ended up getting some gelato.It was the best damn $12 gelato I ever ate.
Now I felt a little bit out of place as an American in Europe, particularly Paris. Parisian women all wear MINIMUM 3 inch heels. And they run down the cobblestone streets in them. In super-tight skirts. While smoking. (I prefer flat shoes, with rubber treads and orthopaedic inserts. You would think I'm an 85 year-old woman because of how much of a pussy I am in shoes with anything over 1/8" heel.) All these women have tiny waists, tiny legs, tiny feet, and really, tiny tits. I felt like a Cirque de Soleil freakshow with the looks I got. Well, it was more the looks my jugs got. No one has big boobs in Europe. I wanted to buy a cute bra since the styles are so much better than here in America. When I tried to estimate my size in the European equivalent I was scorned to the fatty rack, where a few mangy bras with no style, no European flair hung sadly. No pretty Franch bras for me. The same thing happened with shoes. Now I wear a 9 1/2 or 10 American shoe size. Pretty normal. In Europe I have Ronald McDonald feet. When I told the clerk what size I'd like to see the shoe in she said something in French that I'm pretty sure translated to," Dear God, those fucking douche-bag Americans now have FEET as large as their tits!" But my French is a little rusty so I might be off on that quote.
Paris was really fantastic. I was brought to tears, like when Matthew McConaughey finds a leftover spliff in between his couch cushions, when I saw the Eiffel Tower light up at night. It's like a giant metal Christmas tree with twinkle lights. Except unlike the annoying 5-speed variation twinkle pattern complete with rotation and spinning angel on top, this light up creation won't annoy you like that guy's Christmas tree collection down the street. (Unless your neighbor happens to be MY neighbor, Mr. N.F. who might call the cops on me if he doesn't like my decor. I probably have to get written approval for my holiday set-up so I should get on that now...) It is really romantic and there do appear to be alot of couples comfortable with PDA. We did not have a "Dad, I think he's going to pork her!" European vacation moment, though. The Louvre was insanely huge. Even if I knew one iota about art, I would have still decided to fuck it after 5 hours. FIVE HOURS and we barely covered half. We took our token picture in front with the glass sculpture thingy where Tom Hanks was in the DaVinci Code. Off to eat more crepes and wine. I cried again like a little bitch at Musee D'Orsay where I saw all the Degas statues and paintings. Dancers everywhere, I'm getting FAHR-KLEMPT!!! Plus the Monet, Manet, Van Gogh and plenty more I've only seen on postcards. It's crazy to see them in person. Again, I looked like a tourist as I rotated from room to room, eyes glazed from tearing up (it's just so BEAUTIFUL) and jaw open in awe. People kept looking for my nametag to see when I needed to reboard my special bus for big-jugged American retards. I missed my stop.
A note if you travel in Europe. They do not believe in hairdryers at many hotels. They have this bullshit vacuum hose thing which I could not determine if it was some sort of ass dryer or a really low wattage hair dryer. Monsieur Cockwad (his actual name escapes me right now) at the front desk of our hotel assured me it was INDEED a hairdryer. Now I have some thick-ass hair, so thick that anything less than 1200 watts will not even move. So I figured that either French bitches have really skinny hair, too, or he was a liar. So I just used the "Muff Fluffer" to NOT dry the hair on my head and wore mine in a bun most of the trip. Bring your own hair appliances and do NOT think you know it all when it comes to power conversion. Sultan went to get me a coffee (yeah, NO coffee in the room either!!! Sons of bitches..) so I pulled out all the little gadgety adaptors we brought from home. They're not like Legos so please read the directions. I not only blew the fuse to my favorite large rollers but the fuses for our whole room. It smelled like burnt underwear before I realized my faux pas. Then as I reached to unplug my precious cargo, "POP!!" and then nothing. Mother fuck. So blown adaptors, ruined hot rollers, and a pubic vacuum lover hose all adds up to shitty-looking hair for our anniversary trip. I couldn't be sure but I THINK the words spoken about me as we left were, and this is a lose translation, "Though her tits are as big as ridiculous Amercian melons, that bitch is as dumb as a bag of rocks. She actually believed our ass crack aerator was for her HAIR!" But they do have really yummy crepes and gelato in Paris.....
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