Continuing on the UNESCO, World Heritage Site theme (you do know what a World Heritage Site is now, right? There will be a quiz.), I present you with:
This was (yet) another one of those *&^$ @#!$*&% @#!& moments. Anyone know what all those !@$%^ stand for? Three words. Non family friendly ones. And no, you only get one guess.
Seriously. This site is straight up OOC. That’s out of control. Really, it’s OOFC. I’m sure all you smarties out there can deduce what the “f” stands for.
The Pont du Gard is an OOFC Roman aqueduct that crosses the Gard River. Those genius Romans built this bad boy in the FIRST CENTURY AD. That’s no typo. Repeat: FIRST CENTURY. In just THREE years. WTF.
I need some classes in Getting Things Done, a la Romans.
Amazingly enough, the Pont du Gard has held up over the centuries, in spite of invaders, wars, weather, and in general people trying to overtake and overthrow other people. Doesn’t that just easily sum up history?
Upon instant arrival at le pont, I was utterly and completely taken. In fact, I even experienced heart palpitations. Maman had to remind me to breathe.
I’m sure she thought I was being overly dramatic. But I’m just that passionate about historical feats of preservation, that show us glimpses of the depth of intelligence and wisdom those from our past had, and the technological feats without the aide of computers and quick calculations.
I was particularly taken with this olive tree. From the year 902! All I can say is: OOFC.
I was equally taken with the river Gard. I tried to convince Maman that we should get our kayak on, but she’s not too keen on water activities. I then tried to convince this fine, bald, gentleman below to give me his shirt.
Okay, okay. So first, in my nicest, sweetest, best French, with my widest, most genuine smile, asked where I could purchase one of the tees. I think I was more surprised that my charm didn’t work. I instantly decided that all this talk and praise about my “vonderful Vrench” and “z cute accent” were total BS.
How this had failed me was too large a question to ponder and deduce. But I wasn’t willing to accept defeat … yet.
I came up with a solution: surely there were others? Naturally I assumed these were employee-only shirts, but come on, I live in the Etats-Unis. Like that’s really going to make a difference?
Non. Non. Et non.
My last tatic and option was to simply ask for his shirt. Now, I didn’t actually mean to say it in such a … forward way … but again, when dealing with a foreign language, one tends to be way more straightforward and upfront than in their native tongue.
Talk about taking the meaning “giving the shirt off your back” to a whole new level.
Apparently, that saying is also an idiomatic phrase in French, because then in the awkwardness of the whole thing (and he had such an unamused look on his face, no fun!), I tried to be funny and use that statement.
Non. Non. Et non.
Again.
Defeat.
I got over it quickly. There was bound to be another chance where I’d have my time to shine and conquer.
Well, hopefully more like, annihilate. And I do mean that in the nicest, most sweetest way possible.