Sorry, PatsJanuary 22, 2007 at 7:24 pm | Posted in food, vie quotidienne | 9 Comments
I’ve already been to Paris, I already been to Rome
And what did I do but miss my home?
I have been out west to Californ’.
But I miss the land where I was born.
Oh, New England.
Last night, Brumaire and I headed out to an expat pub (Canadian-themed, ironically) to view some live, authentic football americain.
I’m not normally the type to go seeking out pseudo-American experiences while I’m here in (arguably) the most beautiful city in the world. But I had to admit this was a special occasion: the Indiana Colts and the New England Patriots facing off for the AFC championship.
Brumaire, you see, is a long-standing Colts fan, and I (as indicated by Jonathan Richman’s lyrics above) hail from New England, so we really had to come out to support our teams — even if it meant there was a little competitive cheering going on.
All in all, it was a good game (the Colts came from behind for a long-awaited win), but it was also kind of a weird experience. In America, sports bars are generally filled with local fans. In Paris, the bar was packed with displaced fans of both teams, plus a motley assortment of curious Frenchies (note to the Parisian in the ludicrous cowboy hat and oversized belt buckle: nobody likes a wannabe). So every play was greeted by near-violent exchanges of cheers and boos.
And I was so amused by the attempts at American barfood that I had to snap a picture during the half:
Who in the kitchen decided it would be a good idea to pair a plate of onion rings with a square of dark chocolate?
We stumbled home at five in the morning, after four (!) pitchers of beer, countless deep-fried delicacies, and nearly seven hours of football (we’d showed up early for the Saints/Bears game). Don’t tell anyone, but that’s about seven times as much football as I’ve ever watched in one sitting in America.
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