Blogging on an iPad is no.
I have done all my blog posts using an iPad mini. A mini for goodness sakes. David and I have coffee in bed every morning (which he brings to me, thanks, Boo!). He turns to me one morning and asks, “Do you ever go back and edit your blog posts? ‘Cause I’ve noticed a few errors.” Really? Errors? Spellcheck is the devil’s spawn if you are typing both English and French. For instance, type “fromage”. Go ahead. I’ll wait. See? It changes to “from age”. What the heck does that even mean? But I love a happy accident and when I typed “sad wardrobes” in a prior post, spellcheck changed it to War Dwarfs. So the sentence read “When the clouds move in, out come the gloomy faces and the sad War Dwarfs”. Hence the reason that David and I have begun to refer to sad Parisians as War Dwarfs.
The war dwarfs have been around. You see them in the face of the waiter that can’t believe you have the nerve to order a plate to share. They scurry through the metro stations at all hours of day and night. They are there, behind the sales counter at the store where you are “just looking” because you probably can’t afford to buy (and they can smell this). They walk the sidewalks and are employed by 90% of the finest hotels in Paris. But they are not as present as they were in the past. Paris is changing.
The war dwarfs have been conquered at the charming and vibrant Le P’Tit Bar Presque Au Bout de la Rue (a RIDICULOUSLY long name but if I don’t write it all out you will perhaps mistake it for the crazy number of other places with similar names). Here we get great service, happy smiles, and…wait for it…I even got a two-cheek-kiss-greeting last time I went there bearing two OKC Thunder t-shirts as gifts (thanks, Barb for sacrificing your night shirts for the cause).
There are also no war dwarfs at Big Fernand just down the street from Le P’Tit Bar. This tiny restaurant has a decidely American assembly line sense to it as you file through the smallest of entryways, order your burger and fries and squeeze your American sized body into a Napoleanic sized chair to eat. But, seriously, nom, nom, nom.
But war dwarfs are on the metro. You cannot escape them. They are there to push you when you get on and off. They scowl at you if you tip the lovely (OK, sometimes not so lovely) singers and musicians who board these trains. They burn holes into you when you laugh or, God forbid, speak English. But I have gotten quite past feeling self-conscious about this. You see, I have an iPad mini. Though it is no for blogging, it is Yes Yes Yes for taking clandestine photos of a war dwarf with a most unfortunate placement of his umbrella. Boom. Done..