Lost in translation

I find myself gravitating more to the faint reminders of America (yes, America) scattered sparsely throughout Paris. Not only that but I suspect that I’m becoming more and more cynical with each Parisian I crash into—apparently, I have a higher threshold for pessimism than I thought. It’s to the point where I now make rampant generalizations and hurl offensive stereotypical remarks about the French. I mean, normally, yes I do send forth outrageous comments (only a few here and there!!) but now it’s outtaaaaa control! Impulsively, instinctually, unconsciously, involuntarily, I perpetuate all the hackneyed Parisian perceptions without shame. I don’t care! As I sit in Starbucks and realize how magical heat feels, I can’t help but conclude that perhaps the French REEK (…and they really do!) because their exceptionally inactive, contemptible professional careers transcend beyond their worthless 35-hour work week into their mundane bread-and-cheese-eating personal lives so much so that these unduly lethargic French fo—