wavyarms: (spooky)
It has occurred to me that perhaps certain spectacular British hosts might take offense at the last post. So let me say here and now that the English pub has no peer. Bangers and mash, not to mention bubble and squeak, will always have a fond place in my gastronomic memory. Also, as far as I can tell, the French don't do beer worth mentioning. And they have no idea how to roast a marmoset.

(But damn, is French bread good. Not to mention the hot chocolate!)

In other gastrointestinal news, I've gotten hooked on goat cheese. This started in London and has been continuing in Paris. Good stuff.

Yesterday my brother and I wandered through a very famous cemetary that I forget the name of, and took our picture next to important people like Saint-Saens and Henri Poincare and such. Never did find Cesar Franck - oh, well. Then we went to the catacombs. If you're in Paris, you must go. Halls and halls of bones. Femurs piled up in incredible walls decorated with patterns of skulls, in deep underground tunnels, and you can touch them if you want. Also, every so often there's an old plaque, from probably over 100 years ago when they relocated all the cemetaries to the catacombs, with classical or Biblical or philosophical quotes about death, which just adds to the atmosphere.

It is now time for me to go be all wedding-oriented, the original purpose of my visit. I'll be home in a little over 2 days, and in 3 days I'll be in class. Wacky.

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wavyarms

June 2013

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