Cinema Francais

I watched The Transporter 2 at the famous Grand Rex Cinema. It wasn't in the large theatre with the three balconies and grand stage, but the room I was in had a fiber optic ceiling made to look like a night sky, plush seats (as all the theatres in France do), and a large enough distance between each row, that I had both leg room and a clear view.
I love the theatres in France. Having worked at a theatre in the States (and wow do I have stories)--and being a film afficianado, I hate walking into a dirty theatre. I hate the tiny, plastic seats bolted down to permantley sticky floors only to watch a screen pocked with gummy bears and chewing gum.
Because so few of the French take food into the theatre with them, theatre owners/managers can afford rich velvet upholstery, wood accents and thick carpet throughout the room-- not just down the main aisle. This makes for a rich, lush theatre-going experience. I feel as though I've snuck into a VIP showing-- not one afforded by my student discount. I don't have a problem with people who eat in the theatres-- I like popcorn every once in a while, but when in our society did it become acceptable to leave your garbage on the floor of a public place: "I'm done eating my extra large vat o' butter, I think I'll wipe my hand on the cushion of the seat next to me, and throw the container on the ground. Then, I'll put my feet on the seat in front of me and talk on my cell phone." This behavior would not be tolerated in a concert hall or play house, on an airline, or even in a classroom. Why do people assume it's okay in a theatre? And excuse me for not sharing my gorey (and I mean gorey) history of finding young children, old people, and every middle age in between having sex! What is wrong w/ us?
Anyway, after the flick, I walked down to St. Vincent de Paul. I couldn't go inside as there was a wedding going on (what I intitially mistook for a massive terrorist attack of a chiffon and lace factory). It was the most god-awful, gaudy parade I have ever seen-- and I've seen many a Pride Parades in my day. The guests lined up in a sort of gauntlet on the stairs in front of the church to welcome the bride to the ceremony. In the small park in front of the Church, two very drunk, homeless bull dykes serenaded the bride with their rendition of "Oh, Happy Day."
Then, I hit a book store. I bought 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (in french), a Truffaut biography (in english-- but I didn't find that out until I got home, oh well), and a gift for one of my sisters.
The ride home was interesting. The metro was packed and hot and smelly. The indian man who frequents the 4 line was there rapping his middle-aged heart out to 1982 boob box he has jimmy-rigged to a market bag. As he was coming down the aisle, I moved out of the way to let him through and got a whiff of something that made me dry-heave. At first, I just thought it was the B.O. of the gross guy standing next to me yelling into his cell phone, but there was no way this was just B.O. and I quickly realized that the tear inducing odor was coming from the festering wound half hidden by a green and black bandage on this guy's cheek-- right next to my face (excuse me, I just threw up a little in my mouth)!
Ah, busy fun day in Paris. I'm still not sure how I am able to live such an adrenaline-pumping lifestyle-- it must be the crack.