Went to the flea market today, which sounds so much shmancier when pronounced Marche Aux Puces. 

And we bought tea cups! Tiny old ones to hang on our chandelier at home in some sort of Alice in Wonderland dream sequence. Yesssssss!

Suzanne didn’t buy anything because she wanted everything. And how do you buy everything at a flea market in Paris? You don’t! You simply can’t.

Then we had lunch at the Disneyesque-over-the-top cafe where a woman (Louisette) with a large died-black bouffant sang Edith Piaf songs and they served surprisingly decent food under high-pressure sales tactics.

My conversation with the waitress, who wanted money to take a photo with her:

“You want creme brulee? I order now,” she asked.

“Actually, I don’t think we’ll want dessert. Just lunch, thanks,” I answered.

“OK, I order your dessert now.”

“No, no dessert, not today. But thank you!”

“You’re welcome. Je t’en pris! I’m just milking you for all you’re worth. Tacky stupid American.”

“Thank you! Still … no dessert. But I’ll still tip you because I am American and I don’t know how not to tip. I tip at the effing gas station when I buy a tank of gas and a pack of gum. I’m told it’s a karma thing. I believe. I know a lot of vegans. I like them so much. I think they’re good people.”

“Two creme brulees.”

“OK. Thank you very much. I hate me by the way.”

“I hate you too.”