Rust Belt Man goes to Paris, mutters Rust Belt Man to himself.
It’s part pep talk, part disbelief.
He never used to travel international, but after absolutely dominating his trip to the Bahamas, he got cocky.
“Book me that sh*t with the Frenchies,” he had said to his niece.
To be safe, he had checked in with his doctor ahead of time. According to the quack, he still didn’t qualify for oxygen. And in terms of the scooter, his knees apparently weren’t bad enough yet.
He waddled out of the office angry that day, reminding the yuppie doctor to at least refill his inhaler. (He would take care of the Colace himself.)
The next thing he knew, it was him, his little blue booklet, and the Winstons, off to the place with the weird hats.
He gets off the plane, and he feels the anger spike again.
Why don’t these people just speak English?
When he finally makes it out of the baggage claim, he finds some French dude holding a sign with his name.
Outside, he chokes down a Winston and plops himself in the car.
At least these clowns drive on the right side of the road, he thinks.
But then the road signs start to piss him off. How does anyone around here know where the heck they’re going?
His niece had mentioned using the metro system instead, but they weren’t sure if he would fit through the standard gates. That, and the pickpockets, though he could barely get stuff in and out of his pockets himself. Anyway, they decided on the car.
Once at the hotel, he eats a few Twinkies that he had packed, has a smoke, and calls it a day.
The next morning, he lumbers around looking for breakfast. The car is picking him up early, but he has time for some eats.
Boulangerie. What the hell is that?
He sees a bunch of bread and gets the idea.
“Two slices of Wonder White.”
After a blank look and a pause, he walks out empty-handed.
What’s wrong with these folks?
He goes next door to the cheese place.
Fromage? I thought it was queso.
“You guys got any American?”
“Je suis désolée.”
Desperate, he’s left with only one choice.
A couple Egg McMuffins and a cigarette later, he’s on his way to the Eiffel Tower.
Jesus. This place looks like a goddamn fire escape.
Unimpressed, he asks to be taken to the next stop.
But he needs a quick snack on the way.
Pâtisserie. That’s a dumb name.
Noticing a bunch of desserts, the light bulb goes off.
“Gimme a Pop-Tart.”
Once again, he leaves disappointed.
Starving, he eventually makes it to the Louvre.
The place is packed, and he starts muttering to himself.
Ain’t no way I’m waitin’ in line with these foreigners to see some stupid painting.
As he walks away, he notices the pyramid, which reminds him of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.
I’d rather be there any day.
He tells the driver to hit the next destination.
Notre Dame? Like the football team?!
Disappointed to see a lame cathedral, he looks around for the bulletin board.
I wonder if this church has bingo night.
He finds nothing, and he knows it’s time to go.
Not even a potluck dinner. This place sucks.
Back outside, he glances at the river.
Looks like the mighty Genesee to me. Speaking of which, it’s time to get wasted.
For some reason, on the way to a restaurant, the driver thinks Rust Belt Man will be interested in the Champs-Élysées.
All these skinny losers. Even their pathetic pancakes are way too skinny.
Finally, he ends up at a dinner spot and orders four bottles of beer.
“How many glasses will you be needing, sir?”
“Zero. And bring me some of that beef burgy-whatever.”
By the time the first bottle is done, Rust Belt Man starts to feel relaxed.
And when the meal shows up, he smiles even more.
Meat and potatoes. At least they can do one thing right.
He downs the other three bottles with three Colace and waves down the check.
This country would be a lot better if it just used dollars.
Irritated once more, he steps out into the fresh French air and whips out the Winstons.
I guess there is one other good thing about this ugly city, he admits.
Everyone smokes.
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