It took about two seconds to figure out you were American. Shorts and Birkenstocks in late October? Polarfleece in Paris? Who DOES these things? Frat boys, that’s who. Frat boys wearing T-shirts with holes in them that say things like “Ithaca.”
The clothes I could have overlooked, but you were there holding an open wine bottle by your side and walking with THAT WALK. The cock strut. You weren’t particularly well-built, but your arms were held to the side just so, like you were.
Then you walked up to a bunch of girls on a blanket--your friends I presume--and I swear one of them said, no shouted, “There are no bunnies at this park! Molly said she saw bunnies!” (Way to make Americans sound brilliant.)
Look, how ‘bout I serve you up a nice tall glass of shut the hell up? Will that make you feel better?
YOU STUDY ABROAD TO GET PUT OUT OF YOUR COMFORT ZONE FOR TWO FRIGGIN SECONDS! This is not a Friday afternoon on “the quad.” People are trying to be chic and stroll and take their kids on ponyrides and you all had to show up and be all LOUD and ALCOHOLIC on a Friday afternoon in Les Jardins du Luxembourg.
And maybe, you know, out of the kindness of our hearts we could have pardoned this one offense, but you’re going to be here two more whole months, and, if I know your type (and oh, I think I do), I just know you’re going to embarass me again.