People of France, prepare yourselves! Big Daddy arrived this morning, and something tells me Paris will never be the same.
For those of you who don’t know my dad, let me explain. He’s a 6 foot 2 barrel chested man who wears painters pants and polo shirts, exclusively. He’s got a penchant for mirrored wrap-around glasses from 7-11 and a distinct distaste for socks. On most days, what’s left of his hair looks like this:
Dad is an avid traveller and has flown his own plane across the U.S. a couple times. But he hasn’t been to Europe since circa 1968. He speaks no French, and at times his command of English is tenuous.
But he’s here gosh darn it. And he’s told me he doesn’t want to see any goddamn museums. (Sweet! Because if I have to go to the Louvre one more time, I will scale the pyramid and fling my body into the fountains below). No touristy things for dad, no. He wants to “be with the French people.”
That father of mine. He is a people person! The Parisians will either be totally charmed/amused by his infectious laugh, or scared to death of the crazy loud American. It’s gonna be a toss up. Either way, Dad is going to get the vrai experience Parisien – there are skinny models walking around everywhere, strikes planned for Saturday, maybe he’ll even step in some dog poo! Then I’m going to put him in a rental car and test his cardiovascular health with a few spins around the L’Arc de Triomphe. It should be amazing.
I am exceptionally excited to spend some QT with him, and hope this trip goes a little more smoothly than the last time my family was here. I’ll be sure let you know how fast he sprints toward the Air France airport shuttle next week.
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Pronunciation: maw(n) pear
Definition: My dad. Who will certainly embarrass me at one point or another while here, just for sport. As in,
“It’s highly likely that mon père will cause a major international incident while vacationing in Paris.”