Of all the wondrous things to do in Paris this summer (eat duck fat fries, ride bikes, drink champagne), I keep finding myself back at the fête foraine in the Jardin de Tuileries. Why? Well, it could be the kitschy rides and alluring smell of barbe à papa.
It might be that I have a niece and nephew here who would much rather ride the carousel than spend another second in a museum looking at naked statues and crumbly old art.
Or maybe I just want a good old American hot dog. Squirting himself in the face with ketchup. With a glass of wine on the side.
But who am I kidding. The fête foraine is my new favorite spot because they’ve got trampolines.
No harnesses or helmets or safety waivers necessary. Just pay your 3 euro and jump until you can’t jump no more. Or until the french carny says it’s time to give the kids a turn.
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Short and sweet this week, since the in-laws are here and I am exhausted. From, ah, the trampoline. Here goes:
Pronunciation: feht for-ayne
Definition: fun fair, carnival. As in:
“My trampoline skills are so amazing, I could be arrested for being awesome at the fête foraine.“