Paris place

Travel notes of a good-for-nothing person. They were written long ago, but have not lost their relevance today, it seems to me ...

It so happened that the trip to France was for me the first foreign outing in general. The dream of an idiot came true - to break out of the tenacious embrace of the Motherland and try to put the world at your feet. At first, I planned to break into Europe through Germany. But the “Fritz”, suspecting a sabotage (“Russians are coming!”), Refused me a visa. And then I decided to please the arrival of the French ... :-)

Perhaps no city in the world has such an attraction for the heart of a Russian as the capital of France - we even say: "To see Paris and die." I'm not going to die yet, I'd rather try to describe my impressions of meeting a city — a dream ...

Reality always seems paler and more prosaic to us than our expectations. I experienced the first shock of meeting Paris on the plane. For some reason, French women are considered the standard of female beauty, but what I saw in the sky (and then, by the way, on the ground) completely dispelled this myth. Some crooked old women crawled around the cabin of the liner, smiling strainedly and causing nausea in the passengers, one of whom, in addition to everything else, managed to spill hot coffee on me. “What the hell!” I thought, sprinkling salt on my pants. “Flight attendants are the first people a tourist meets when entering the country. They, like the calling cards of the state, must be impeccable. Most likely, this is some kind of misunderstanding, an unfortunate oversight, so to speak...” But during all the time that I was in Paris, I was never able to find, with all my desire, a single truly beautiful pale face (which I can’t say about mulatto women, there are indecently many of them here and for every taste). In fairness, it should be noted that the lack of beauty among French women is more than compensated by the presence of a special charm that equalizes their chances with Russian arrogance. They mutter sweetly to themselves in such a gentle dialect, like a babbling stream. No, truly, the French language was created for love!..

There are a lot of Russians in Paris, and Russians have always been treated very well here. At first, out of fear, when in the glorious 1814 our Cossacks drove away the poor, slow Parisians shouting “quickly!” (in memory of those times, the Bistro chain of eateries remained). Then - out of respect for the high intellectual level of our compatriots (the Russian intelligentsia, offended by the Russian people, made it a habit to settle in Paris). Today, impoverished and dishonored Russia walks around the world with an outstretched hand, beating the thresholds, including those of the arrogant French house. Eh, ugly Motherland... We have nothing to take from those who are poorer than us! Now, “ours” here are mostly mayors and businessmen who stole. The French don't like them, but they tolerate them. They pay well. I was visiting one such “new Russian”. Huge apartment in the city center, with a magnificent view of the Champs Elysees. Luxurious collection of antiques. Crystal, amber and gilding are everywhere. My French friend’s eyes widened from such splendor: “Wow, the Russians have settled in!” And the owner, as is his Jewish custom, complains: they say, in Paris money flies so fast that you don’t have time to print it. Asshole. It would be better if you gave them to me, I would find a more worthy use for them... :-)

What Russian doesn't love Parisian cabarets? So, immediately upon arrival, I went to one of the most attractive strip clubs in France - Crazy Horse (Crazy Horses). But it would have been better not to go - my heart ached. Seeing hot, naked dancers two steps away from you and not being able to ride them - you can’t imagine worse torture! In general, at first I rushed around Paris with my eyes literally flooded with desire - and French women, who had never seen anything like this, reluctantly shied away from me :) There is a street in Paris that, like a magnet, attracts anxious tourists, and has long become a byword talker - whore Place Pigalle. A huge number of all kinds of sex shops, strip bars and everything that invigorates this brother is concentrated on it. After some time, I was already walking along her sidewalk, flat as her stomach. Here it is - the “sweet” grin of capitalism. Everything is like in the movies, even worse. Prostitutes winked at me with their tongues, inviting me to buy their body. And in the end... I just waved my hand at them, never to return to this cesspool again...:-)

The French, of course, scammers. They came up with all sorts of tales about French gallantry, legs and love. All to attract the fool-tourist. But we know something - their gallantry is packaged more and more for haberdashery, if there are legs, then only Russians (there are a lot of our compatriots in Paris), and love no longer lives there. Yes, and where did she come from such misers? It's boring to live in Paris, gentlemen ... :-)

Of course, the first thing that catches your eye here is smiles. Everybody smiles: a waiter in a cafe who forgot about your arrival for half an hour, an employer who refused to work. At first I liked it, I thought: how, however, dentists work well here. Then it became annoying. After all, this is all artificial, unreal. West is hypocritical. At best, he does not care about you, you are indifferent to him, at worst - he hates you, and the more he smiles, the more he hates. Once a lady, grinning (but it would be better if she did not do this!) Asked me: “Why do you smile so seldom?”. Yes, because I do it when I want, and not when necessary! Russians are stingy with a smile (harsh political and economic climate), but if they smile ... :-)

In general, with all their seeming sociability, people in France are tightly buttoned in the cases of their own individualism and do not part with them, even if it interferes with walking. Here everything is regulated: smiles, calls, emotions, and nothing is done just like that. Here they love to rant about God, but it is unlikely that you will look for great materialists. Sometimes it seems to me that they are engaged in charity here only to the extent that they have learned how to cut money from it. No, it was not that I imagined France from reading books in my childhood. The local men got sick, and the women were tightly poisoned by the poison of feminism. Calculation Judas, with the tacit consent of the French, outraged innocent romance. A fighting, cocky cock - a symbol of the once great nation - was probably eaten by the French themselves during the Napoleonic escape from Russia ...

I do not cease to be surprised local beggar. As a rule, these are young 20-25 blockheads of the age, with no physical injuries visible to the eye, but somewhere that have lost their conscience. I understand, everything happens in life. Our old men broke fascism and raised the country from devastation in order to rummage through garbage cans on their declining years. But you are not in Russia. Hands and legs are intact. The head also seems to be in place. What prevents you from working? Under Peter 1, such people were laid out on the couch and were beaten with batogs for a long time, knocking out crap. By the way, about the fools. They are here, perhaps, no less than in Russia (although we are more dangerous). Some at the meeting contemptuously twisting their mouths, having learned that you do not speak French (they, you see, do not like “aglitsky”), others got the hang of doing striptease right in the subways of the subway. And what, in a free democratic society, everyone has the right to self-expression! ..

The French are rarely invited to visit (for reasons of economy) and are very surprised Russian hospitality. They can not understand how it can be watered, fed and entertained guests without any benefit for themselves. And, of course, such feasts like ours are not accepted here. Friendly gatherings for some reason they are called party, although it would be better to call it - “hunger strike”. On the tables usually roll the ball. Splash some poison on the bottom of the glass and pour the compound feed in bowls. Walk, flaw! But all foreigners are felled at Russian parties. They say: they like our kitchen. Still would! For free, as you know, sweet vinegar. I knew one Frenchman who generally hung out exclusively with the Russians. Without understanding our words in a single word, he nevertheless steadily got drunk along with everyone, causing the joyful approval of others ... :-)

Once Pierre (namely, that was the name of the universal pet) set out to entertain me with a drink. We arrived at a nightclub, and there - an open bar (all drinks until a certain hour are free). I reported this to my French acquaintance, but he either did not understand, or did not hear. I ordered a beer. I took vodka. We sit - we communicate. After a while I feel - you need to soak your throat. I ask the bartender for a second glass. Then another. I looked: my Frenchman was sad, completely stopped talking. After another portion of the fingers shows me - four. Considers it means. And I can not understand what's wrong. Violence persuaded him to take a second beer. After the fifth, he frantically clutched at his head. From the sixth he began to shake, tears welled in his eyes. When I overthrew the seventh, he was almost in a pre-infarction state. Thoroughly typing, I decided to go to the air. The Frenchman, with a doomed look, crawled over his wallet. You should have seen the face of this benefactor, when he was asked to hide the money back! How he cursed his own stupidity! As I wanted to catch up and how, finally, I lamented the death of the free drink ... :-)

They dress strangely in Paris. Who knows what they want, but everything is without taste. They are also called the capital of fashion! Maybe because the city is too international. A black man sits on a black man and chases the Arab. They are cheeky. They took out various rags from the chests of their black grandmothers and dressed themselves up like garden scarecrows. Pederasts, again, do not sleep - they move their ideas to the masses. There are all sorts of trousers that suck, nipples are pierced. But just show it to the people, it will bring everything to such an absurdity that it becomes sickening. I saw someone here recently, knocked down, and his mouth even opened in surprise. This, of course, was worth thinking about. On his frail body he wears a shapeless T-shirt with short sleeves, from under which a holey graduation shirt sticks out and screams. Around his neck is a bright yellow tie (by which I would gladly hang him). His head is in a Panama hat, and on his feet are army shitbags of unimaginable size. Some kind of miracle-yudo-fish-whale...

It seems to me that in 15-20 years you won’t recognize Paris. The French are at real risk of losing their capital. Already, half of the city’s population are people from the Dark Continent, and their number continues to grow steadily. Unlike the lazy French, visitors demonstrate a downright pathological love of mating and reproduce with incredible speed - like rabbits! But that's not so bad! It is clear that with such an intense sexual life, Afro-Arabs have neither the strength nor the desire to engage in any kind of work activity (they do not engage in it). The social security system in France is designed in such a way that the state guarantees substantial financial assistance to large families of parasites. At the expense of their hard workers, of course. But it should be like this: whoever doesn’t work doesn’t eat! (but in the West they do not understand human rights and democratic freedoms very correctly)…

Street crime is no less a problem for Parisians. In this wonderful city there are areas where it’s better not to go at night. In my eyes, a gang of Arab teenagers “cleared out” a late European in a matter of seconds. Even as the poor fellow's name, did not ask. Screaming in flocks, jackals, terrorizing the population. Where money poked, where a woman’s handbag is pulled out. Cowardly themselves. Just what is wrong, immediately sit on the ass. Not used to tough resistance. The Frenchman is a spit in his face, and he will apologize for disturbing him. Scared of being accused of racism ...

Well, if the French like it that way, sil vou ple! And it’s time for me to say goodbye... Goodbye, Paris! I know that I will miss your museum streets and cozy bars and restaurants, the mysteries of the Bois de Boulogne and bookstores on the Seine, and the beautiful fairy tale called “Paris,” which even the French themselves could not destroy. Or maybe I’ll remember the sad nostalgia I experienced here for ideal Russia (which, of course, is not such). But nowhere do we love our mother - the Motherland - as much as outside its borders...

Prophetic Oleg