To say I’m nervous about Paris’s partial reopening/un-confining tomorrow May 19, is an oversimplification. I’m extremely excited, pumped, relieved, excited again. I really want to be able to buy some objects in person, look at some arts, or sit at a table when I grab lunch with friends instead of on the ground at a park. But, I’m also nervous.
The word “taco” in the name kind of leads one to believe that the tacos are tacos but they’re not tacos. If they were, they would be an abomination. But thanks to a very popular article in the New Yorker, I’ve since had to change my stance, eat my words, and eat a damn French Taco.
Hear me out: French Airbnb hosts sometimes come across like desperate animated candlesticks. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it’s just different.
Ten weeks ago, the idea of hour-long lunches everyday would have terrified me. Now, I’m grateful-ish for them.
It’s been 7-ish weeks of quarantine, folks. That’s 147 French meals, some of which featured food I never knew existed.
You merely adopted the isolation. I was born in it, molded by it.
I’m not talking about obvious stuff you read on Buzzfeed. I’m talking niche and deeply biased advice for living in Paris, France.
Some differences between LA and Paris are obvious–like trading freeways for metros. Others, I would never have thought of.
A very biased account of everything you need to know when you visit Disneyland Paris, especially about how bad the Indiana Jones ride there is.
French breakfast is different from your breakfast, but it’s also extremely important so don’t talk shit about it.