Heh. It's the French. Of course it's right. So right that I can hear the pinched-nose arrogance scoffing at me from my computer screen.
I was about to embark on a digital honeymoon, of sorts. A fantastic escape to a place where part (but not all) of my soul lives. It sits at unnecessarily small bistro tables, creates oil-based masterpieces on canvas as it casually picks at unnecessarily large baguettes, drinks café, lounges by fountains in designer labels, carries a small dog everywhere, strolls casually through museums with a glass of aged red wine (can you DO that?), laughs politely at some things but never loudly at anything, never has less than 4 shopping bags hanging from its arm at any given time, and is perpetually annoyed by the silly American who insists on verbally butchering the acclaimed Champs Elysees (shahnz uh-leezay). (You're welcome.)
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| Champs Elysees |
Unfortunately, I am that silly American. Or "American idiot", as the French so eloquently put it. Of course, it sounds almost musical when said with the proper accent, but still, the term was unexpected as it popped up in the translator. The romantic rêverie I was mentally and emotionally prepared to plunge into was forced back into the metaphorical boat, toes gripping the edge, arms flailing in an attempt to rebalance.
So, here I sit, some place in-between my French destination and my silly American desk. And if I'm honest, I'll tell you I don't mind the "translation" interruption. It makes me laugh.
But only politely.
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