Donkey Delicacies and Man-Eating Trains

They say nothing broadens your worldview like traveling, and after enjoying the decidedly decadent delicacies across France and Italy for 17 days, my wife and I are feeling extremely broad.  We’ve eaten so much stinky cheese and baguettes that our French has improved considerably.  To speak French properly, you have to purse your lips and crinkle your nose as if trying to determine if the cheese is ripened to perfection or flush-worthy. The line can be maddeningly fine.

 

Happily, along with our fleshy parts, our minds have also expanded. Here’s just a tiny sampling of the culturally enriching tidbits we picked up on the Continent: 

 

It’s so difficult to find good donkey sausage in the Highlands that you’ll be delighted to know that it’s ubiquitous in France.  Which won’t do you any good if your spouse refuses to allow it in the same car with her.

 

On any given day, there are roughly the same number of Chinese in the Louvre as in Kowloon.

 

If it’s just been too darned long since you swooned in the presence of the dried tongue and vocal chords of a saint, you can find relief in a cathedral in northern Italy.

 

We spent a lot of time in our nifty little rental car. Some of our friends think we’re insane for driving in foreign countries, but we love making up our itinerary as we go, and picnicking where we choose.  And of course it’s vastly fulfilling to take potty breaks-– discretely and legally, of course – in the most spectacular settings imaginable. In fact, I was much more discreet than the local guys, who just pull to the shoulder, turn their backs to traffic and fire at will.  I deferred to Miss Manners and always found a bush.

 

A few years ago in Ireland, I thrilled at the challenge of shifting a four-on-the-floor with my left hand while driving on the wrong side of the road. When the 10-ton lorries zoomed toward us on narrow roads, I got a little tense, but only ruined four pairs of shorts. And since we don’t sky dive or drag race anymore, we’ve found that a scenic way to get the same adrenaline rush is to drive across the Alps with impatient Italians in Ferraris trying to kill us. Tailgating is a popular sport in Italy. High-speed vehicular sodomy is a way of life. Of course, it would be imprudent to show your annoyance by flashing an obscene gesture, because that numskull pressuring your sphincter could be the hot-headed son of the local Don. I’d rather dine on the Fish of the Day than sleep with it.

 

My other near-death experience occurred on the Metro, the famous Parisian subway system, when the very first train we boarded tried to eat me. I carried cameras, guidebooks and baguettes in a little backpack. When we surged forward with the crowd, a busker with a violin caused a horrendous bottleneck in the doorway. I managed to get my body onto the car behind my wife, but my backpack didn’t make it. The doors closed on it, and I was stuck like a bug on a pin, helpless to do anything, while the alarm buzzer howled at me in French: LeWAHWN! LeWAHWN! LeWAHWN! A couple of beefy guys managed to pry the door open and extricate me, but of course I was mortified and felt like the stereotypical Ugly AND Stupid American. My wife found it vastly amusing but pretended not to. She couldn’t help herself when two hours later I walked past a bicycle chained to a post and the handlebar caught my backpack strap, jerking me to the ground as hilariously as a Stooge. 

 

With the incredible food and sights keeping her amazed – and various modes of transportation assaulting me, keeping her entertained – my wife had a wonderfully fulfilling trip. I did, too, but I’m thrilled to be home.