Last night around Paris, people in public places stabbed one last cigarette into their gueles, and then it became February 1st. The day they've been dreading. Smoking has now been banned from places like hospitals and metro stations (you know, the kind of places where it never occurs to anyone in the States to smoke, at least in the past 25 years, out of sheer common sense and courtesy). Bars and restaurants will be smoky at least until 2008).
The point of the law, contrary to some public opinion, is not to limit the rights of smokers ("no, you can't slowly kill yourself in public!"), but to protect the rights of non-smokers ("please don't slowly kill me in public"). And with this as my assumption, I casually sauntered into a cafe Tuesday evening and sat down at the closest empty table.
"Mademoiselle!" an old lady voice screeched from behind the bar. "That's the smoking section, êtes-vous fumeuse?"
"Non," I replied, "mais ça ne m'embête pas." I don't mind sitting in the smoking section, I was explaining; I'm not the kind of non-smoker who can't bear to be within a mile of a cigarette.
"Mais vous devez vous déplacer, Mademoiselle, vous ne pouvez pas y rester!" she was very upset and insisting I move to the "non-smoking" section, two tables down, on the other side of a plaster column.
"Non, mais, je ne suis que pour 15 minutes, franchement, ça ne m'embête pas Madame," trying to explain I was only staying 15 minutes and didn't care if the people around me were smoking. Still not getting it. Then:
"Mais les fumeurs ont besoin de leurs propres tables, il faut que vous vous déplaciez immédiatement!"
Aha. It became clear. She didn't care about my lungs. She cared about the rights of her smoking clients. There was a regulation and she was going to stick to it, whether it made sense or not. Fine. I gathered up my many bags, the exams I had already taken out to begin grading, my pen, my jacket, my scarf, and I moved two tables down, grousing all the while.
* * *
In other news, yesterday I wrote for about L'auberge espanol for Parisist, and refusing to so much as give a name to my desire, I chose not to mention the name Romain Duris. And now look what happened: he turned up in my dream last night. A very naughty dream, dreamt while sleeping right beside mon adoré! This is what comes of repression! So here it is: Romain Duris is so ****ing hot, even in a bad wig, standing in a field of poppies, staring down from those Metro ads for his new Molière film. There you have it. N will understand.
I understand as well...
Posted by: Aimee | February 01, 2007 at 02:28 PM
hahaha! bad wig and all. And what's with the giant bag? Does he need to lug around a backup supply of wigs? Did Moliere fancy man-bags of unwieldly dimensions? So many questions.
Posted by: nardac | February 01, 2007 at 07:40 PM
This was too funny...especially the part about the field of poppies.
It takes a lot of man to be that manly in a field of poppies.
Posted by: Mlle Smith | February 01, 2007 at 11:58 PM
As a Duris fan, you probably already know Honoré's 17 fois Cécile Cassard... This my personal favorite Duris role, due entirely to his woodland panty dancing scene, which in terms of masculinity, makes bewiggedly forging through a field of poppies look like winning a heavyweight boxing title.
Posted by: Romanbrent | February 02, 2007 at 10:13 AM
You are so tolerant... I would have packed up my things, said goodbye to the lady and vowed to never set foot back in that café.
Posted by: Sebastiano Pilla | February 02, 2007 at 02:14 PM
Oh but I love Romain (I use his first name as if I know hime, ;), best in "De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté". Superb!
Delphine
Posted by: Delphine | February 02, 2007 at 03:10 PM
ah, Romain. he lives in my hood, i think. only a couple of weeks ago we were dropping baguettes together at the local japanese restaurant, and i once enjoyed a beer within arm's reach of the guy. he wants me.
Posted by: Aralena | February 02, 2007 at 03:33 PM
seriously aralena?
uffffff
delphine
Posted by: Delphine | February 03, 2007 at 12:02 AM
Romain Duris is the sex. Even when he's sporting a ridiculous, fake weave or spiky crazy hair, as he did in Le Divorce.
Posted by: Sara | February 03, 2007 at 09:52 PM
Oh, Romain.
Oooooh.
Posted by: eurobrat | February 03, 2007 at 09:57 PM
Romanbrent, no, I don't know that film! I'm intrigued. I'll have to check it out.
Aralena, darling, where is your hood?
And Sara: yes. It is all about the crazy spiky hair, and the showtunes he plays on the piano. Fields of poppies, bad wig, showtunes, and still makes my flesh quiver!
Posted by: maitresse | February 04, 2007 at 12:08 PM
I want to go to Aralena/Romain's 'hood and loiter seductively...
Posted by: Claire...(l.i.b) | February 04, 2007 at 11:33 PM
As I have said in previous posts, I can't settle my mind on the topic of Romain Duris- Hot or Not. However, I watched 'Bon Voyage' on Saturday night and have a definite crush on Gregori Derangere.
Posted by: Miss Anna Louise | February 05, 2007 at 01:10 AM
I met Romain at a film festival in New York and had a very random conversation about which arrondissements we live/lived. He was about my height and I felt like i could crush him (me at all of 120 pounds). He was so skinny, had a hairy chest and his hair was huge. It was all quite odd..
Posted by: Laura | February 05, 2007 at 05:42 AM
Hmmm, I like poppies and skinny French men with big hair. I'll have to see the film!
Bisous, Ms. Glaze
Posted by: Ms. Glaze | February 08, 2007 at 11:04 PM