Je t’aime…moi non plus
New York makes great substitutes for the real thing. I still stand behind NY’s level of authenticity when it comes to international cuisine, or the representation of women of that specific culture. Celebrating holidays like French Independence Day in the big city is no different than the festive atmosphere of America’s fourth day in July, or Cinco de Mayo—where public intoxication is excusable. This past weekend, Brooklyn (on Smith St.) celebrated the anniversary of the historic takeover of King Louis XVI’s monarchy during the French revolution.
This was the second year I’ve spent taking part in the annual gathering to salute France. Actually, when they almost won the World Cup in ’06 against Italy, that would have added to the fun I had the same year I first learned about Bastille day at a friend’s house party. Over the low volume of the puny iPod speakers, French sayings from folks echoed off the walls. Meanwhile, the white sangria, exotic cheese, and fruit spread inspired other non-celebratory activities like “tit-you’re-it.” Apparently drunk and hot girls, with large bosoms will engage in horseplay, trading punch for punch in the chest. Demonstrating the battle were my two good friends. Watch as their fists of fury jab at each other to commemorate my first Bastille day.
*Tacked onto the refrigerator was a magnetic eraser board, on which I left this thoughtful message:
“Before I became the experienced young man that stands here today, I once thought the so-called “dreadful” taboo french kiss meant kissing the member of a female. Maybe the use of the tongue got lost in translation, but I am glad nonetheless that I am a cunning linguist.