Every year on the first of July, France and Europe undergo a dramatic change; not only is it the commencement of the French's beloved "vacances," but it is also the day that signals the arrival of fifty million tourists. Now, I am the first to admit that I am a tourist, and that I, too, am taking up space. (There's nothing that irks me more than obnoxious tourists who wander into a crowded place and say, "God, what are all these people *doing* here??" For your information, o gentle tourist, you too are there, and you probably came there for the same inscrutable reason as the people you're ogling.) I also like to think (perhaps incorrectly and pompously), however, that I am not a pesky tourist--after all, I *am* a French citizen, I speak the language rather well, and, as a human being, I'm not obnoxious. I also do not travel in herds of 100s. This is crucial.
The past month that I've been here has been blissfully quiet, aside from some occasional romps associated with festivals or the World Cup. Yesterday, as my parents and I attempted to walk around the area of the Place de la Madeleine, we were hit with the unpleasant realization that we were in the midst of Eurocrush--a term coined by my family that truly captures the spirit of Europe in the summer months.
Eurocrush = A phenomenon that occurs in Europe during the summer months (particularly July and August), in which swarms of foreign tourists flock to the same place and all try to do the same thing at the same time. This generally results in feelings of claustrophobia, frustration, anger, and fear. Side effects include hiding in isolated rooms, and swearing to never visit Europe during the summer again.
I made the poor decision of walking down the Boulevard Haussmann and trying to buy stockings in an H&M during the notorious French "soldes" period. It was soon abundantly clear that the Cinquanta Cavones, Jabbering Japanese, and Abundant Arabs had me beat.
From now on I'm sticking to side-streets and coming out at night.
'Sup guys.
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