Reading in Paris

What I'm reading in Paris:

What I'm not reading in Paris:

I love my Paris apartment-swap partner, even though I've never met him; he's the absolute sweetest guy you can imagine. But his library makes me feel like an imbecile. I can only imagine what he thinks of the prime real estate that Go, Dog, Go! occupies on my bookshelves. I mean, The French aren't kidding around, are they? Although I am confused by this business of printing upside down on the spines. What's the meaning of this? Do they teach reverse spine reading in the schools? It's not like it would straighten itself out even if you were reading in a mirror, which sounds like something the French might do just to be avant-garde and glamorous. Anyway, if you can tell me, I will fax you eight hundred million (invisible, nonexistent) Euros. Merci in advance.

I had lunch today at Cru, which was a little très nouveau for me. For one thing I was baffled by the utensils, which were like KFC plastic sporks converted to heavy artillery. Have you ever tried to stab thinly shaved beets on a plate using a fork that is flat like a knife and a knife that is thick like a chisel? In French? Please give this a try sometime and let me know how you fare, because I had to teleport myself someplace else through the entire meal. Every time my young, skinny, tragically chic waitress glided by, I wanted to drop right through the floor. Good beets, though.

After that I figured I deserved some sort of award for not dying of shame in public, so I walked across the street to The Red Wheelbarrow, where I luxuriated in English speak for a while and bought a not-at-all-confusing copy of Lucky Jim.

God I love this town. It's crazy as hell.