spit

Since this seems to be a story that is circulating around the diner table (and only because I'm too annoyed with french grammar to do my homework), I thought I would fill in the holes for those that have only heard it through mom: Yes, I got spit on on the métro. Yes, it was disgusting. It was probably my fault.

What is the first piece of advice they always give you when you visit Paris? It's not watch your shit - though that's very true - and it's not "eat where the locals eat." It's "don't ever, EVER, talk to dirty old men on the métro." Good advice.

However, Samantha, after a few glasses of wine, seems to think that her text-book level conversational skills have equiped her with the tools to tell off dirty old drunken bums that stare at her on the métro...sadly, it is just not so.

My friends and I jumped on the last train home, a giggling gaggle of American gals, so naturally we we're going to get some form of attention. I must have been feeling confrontational and overly confident (drunk I think is what they call it...yeah, that's it) and when this bumbling old fool wouldn't stop staring at us, I took it upon myself to challenge his gaze with a very, VERY rude "quoi?"

One little "what" was all it took, and he was stumbling to our neck of the train car, just inches from my face and reeking of booze. Words were exchanged, something to the extent of "I'll look where ever I want EXPLITIVE, EXPLITIVE," I told him to back off, might have accidentaly kicked him in the process, our métro stop came up and just as we're running out of the car he lets loose a puff of air on my cheek that made my entire body shiver with mordification.

More explitives, we exchange the bird, and he shoots off in the train. Lucky for me, he was thouroughly drunk as it would appear that the alcohol in his system absorbed his saliva - it was really only like a shot of air to the face, but still disgusting. I scrubbed for twenty minutes after I got home and my dreams were haunted by memories of his stale breath.

So moral of the story? Don't talk to people on the métro, and it's probably a good idea not to ride it with me after I've had a few. Apparently I think I'm hot shit. Oh - and don't pester the drunken bums - they might not have anything of substance to spit at you, but they still smell like death.