Is This Snails?

The trouble with trying to travel anywhere with me (for that matter, the trouble with trying to have a meal with me at home) is that at 35 years old I still have the palate of a child of 6. If it's not made out of pasta or bread I probably don't want it, and if it contains words I can't pronounce or sounds in any way exotic there is absolutely zero chance you are going to get me to put it in my mouth.

StereoNinja took me to Paris in March after finding out I had never been there, and while this was still in the planning stages I had decided, based on exactly no evidence or research whatsoever, that there was absolutely nothing to eat in France that wasn't made out of snails (except perhaps crepes, but those sounded suspicious to me in their own right because they've been described to me as "like a pancake" except they are not a pancake and why can't I just have a pancake? Plus they are probably stuffed full of snails) and I was probably going to starve to death. StereoNinja insisted both that this wasn't remotely true and French cuisine is some of the finest in the world, and that even if it were true, snails are delicious and I would love them. They are drowning in butter and garlic, he reasoned, which is what I drown practically everything I eat in, so there should be no problem. I countered that I would prefer to enjoy my butter and garlic without massive boogers floating in it.

In the end I managed to avoid eating any snails. In fact I ate very little of anything, not because I was being an obnoxious child, but because there are specific times designated for eating in France, and good fucking luck to you finding a single open restaurant if the time you are hungry is outside of those appointed times. What I did manage to find to eat was a Mexican restaurant just down the block from our hotel, because when you go to France for the first time in your life, it makes complete sense to eat food that you can get on practically every corner of the city you actually live in, but of better quality and 1/3 of the price. I didn't care - fajitas are something I know for a fact I don't hate and I wanted a friggin margarita (I drank four). Besides which, I now get to tell the story of how StereoNinja took me to France and I insisted on eating Mexican food the entire time.

We also spent a day in the Centre Georges Pompidou because StereoNinja is an artist and also CULTURE. Unfortunately, being surrounded by "culture" isn't something that typically makes me behave like a grown up in public. This day was no exception. It started with this kid who clearly fancied himself some sort of artiste as evidenced by his skin tight bright blue trousers and jaunty hat, which someone must have told him was the uniform. He was walking around looking very very serious about things and nodding solemnly and I was doubled over laughing. There was also a pink painting with a couple of dark vertical slits:

I refused to believe this painting wasn't called "Two Vaginas".

a giant room filled with ceiling high rolls of what appeared to be burlap, which looked for all the world like the back room of my uncles' floor covering shop where they keep all of the giant rolls of linoleum (this room caused me to turn to StereoNinja and say "I'm sorry but I really don't understand 'your people'."), and several phallic sculptures, every one of which I made StereoNinja take a photo of me pretending to suck off:

Evidence that I should not be allowed in public.

Not pictured: maturity.

For some reason I was far better behaved at the Moulin Rouge despite being completely surrounded by boobies and drinking half a bottle of champagne, apart from the fact that there was one male dancer who bore a striking resemblance to my date, and I kept referring to him as "Young [StereoNinja]", much to Old StereoNinja's irritation. I'm really not sure why he likes me. I'm starting to think he's not a real ninja*.

*OR IS HE?