Francophiled

Blogger just spent three days with a dear friend in France. He picked us up at the airport on Thursday morning. Thinking we were flying in from Frankfurt, a flight that was 2 hours late, he strolled in 1:45 behind schedule thinking he was super cool for being 15 minutes early. We went back to his parents flat in Paris for a quick shower and nap while he was calling all his friends for a little get together at their country house in Normandie. After a shower to fresh'n up, we climbed into his car, which is a French version of a Jeep Pacer that he throws around corners like a go-cart. Half way to his country house we saw his friend G on the highway, and Monsieur tried to ram him with his Francopacer. The friend thought it was super fun.
The house is amazing, a little cottage out of a Disney movie in a small
farming community 1.5 hours outside Paris. Its decorated with Monsieur’s
Mom's paintings, has cherry trees in the back and is pretty much the
most relaxing place in the world....until a bunch of French gypsies
show up with a kilo of blow.
The first night was really mellow, just five of us and a couple bottles of wine with a very light dinner. Serge Gainsbourg was singing about sex with Gilda Radner (so I understood in my broken French) in thebackground, standard stuff.
Blogger woke up around 6am and walked around the little
community, and by the time we came back, Monsieurs friend’s from aroundFrance were trickling in. He told us stories about parties they have thrown there over the years, sometimes with over 300 people showing up and staying awake for 3 days non-stop. One story involved two or three policemen and firemen showing up at around 1am, telling them that they had to shut the party down and come to the station with them. It turned out to be some wacky farmer neighbors that Monsieur eventually recognized, and ended up doing tons of blow with.
By that evening, it was evident that Monsieur’s friends were going to get down to business, smoking dag after dag and slowly starting to pump their fists when they walked. Blogger is a complete puss, so he stuck to wine. It didn't take long to recognize that the master bathroom, had become the French version of a bathroom stall at Limelight circa 1988. People constantly going in, and then coming out with their head's bouncing to the music and fist pumping action having elevated from waist to shoulder level. All of Monsieur’s friends were of course fantastic, comprised of Gypsies, a couple of French hippies that had lived in the Arkansas Ozarks for a
year or so, families with little children running around, and new born babies.
Blogger called it a night around 2am. The next morning the party was still going strong, though Monsieur had passed out so we stole the keys to his car and drove into a little town to do some
sightseeing and buy cheese and foie gras. The next night was more of the same; the Gypsies with gold teeth and a sweet 17 inch Mac G4 Powerbook giving Blogger tons of badass music, and then making me think they were going to eat Blogger whole. Monsieur drove us to the train station working on 1 hour of sleep over three days, but of course acting completely normal and on top of his game. He had to go to work the next morning and pass out while standing up and presenting at a client meeting, so of course he planned on doing more blow.