Not today my little one.

When I arrived in France I was wondering whether I’d leave a smoker. I had the impression that everybody smoked here, but fortunately this isn’t the case. Thankfully, it’s just a staggering majority which smoke, not the entire population. How unrealistic it was of me to think that children as young as 4 or 5 would be puffing away. They don’t develop the motor skills to roll their own cigarettes until at least 6! And the elderly, too, are an inspiration. Many have courageously renounced the habit now that the tumor has incapacitated them from lifting their hands to their mouths and breathing in.

However, in the land of croissants and student riots, there is still much smoke in the air. In brasseries and discotheques across the country, it is often impossible to see from one end of the party to the other due to the gray haze. It is a common practice to have as many cigarettes going at one time as is possible, lest someone suspect that you are unfashionably courteous to those who may not share your insatiable lust for tar inhalation. The clouds in the bar are so bad that if you looked at some of my pictures, you might think I was on an exchange in flavour country. And baby, it’s a big country.

The main reason I worried I would return a smoker was that, in Canada, you have to smoke outside. Since I was under the misguided impression that every French person in existence smoked, I figured I would have to follow them out if I ever wanted to fulfill my goal of having sex with a girl that smelled like a laughably fashionable ash tray. Yet, as I was soon to learn, the set-up is beautiful here. Since nobody goes outside to smoke, I can hit on French girls without ever having to become a first-hand smoker myself! Imagine how silly I would look, standing outside, in the middle of a crowd of smokers, with no other pretext than being horny. Instead, I can stand inside, in the middle of a crowd of smokers, with a completely viable pretext: I’m horny, but also want beer.

Some men like it when women moan or breathe heavily in bed. I prefer it if the walk back to my flat has them breathing heavy. And moaning? Forget it. Give me a phlegmy cough, any day.

So, crisis averted, I think. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to come back to Canada addicted to smoking. There’s still a chance, mind you. But I’d say it’s slimmer than most of the aspiring models I’ve met here. My one remaining worry is that I’m already addicted. I mean, let’s look at the facts: My clothes, skin, and hair constantly reek of smoke; I wake up with my eyes and throat burning virtually every day; I feel jittery if I go more than 6 hours without inhaling nicotine; and most disconcertingly, I now hold out my middle and index fingers whenever I talk with my hands.

I’d say that things aren’t looking good, but it’s hard to tell – there’s a gray haze in the way.

A conversation I had recently in the French Alps, translated to English for funny's sake...

---

Me: How do you say 'drunk' in French?

French Girl 1: 'Burre.'

Me: Boo-ray?

French Girl 2: *Laughing* Yeah, close enough.

Me: Sorry, my tongue isn't good at pronouncing French words. It's better at other things.

--Akward Pause--

French Girl 1: So, I think me and my friend are going to bed now.

Me: I'm funny in Canada, I promise.

Inter-cultural conversation has an interesting advantage and an obvious problem. The problem is the nuances of thought are often lost. This is unfortunate but acceptable since translation, however unskilled, is necessary. The advantage is really just the problem viewed in a different light. Since you cannot surgically adjust your words to produce a precise effect, you have to say what you mean as simply as you can. Blunt communication is honest communication.

We’ve traded our scalpels for sledge hammers. Be patient.

Au revoir mes amis.
Jusqu'à ce que nous nous réunissions encore.