I’ve been spending the last month of my summer vacation in France with YJ doing the 陪读 thing. Like a strange birthmark that doesn’t seem all that cancerous but never quite goes away, I’ve come to accept France. For example, jogging in France not only keeps me fit it makes me nimble dodging the regularly spaced parcels of la merde de chien. (Everything sounds nicer in French.) There’s also the trolly system in Bordeaux with the train tracks decoratively blended into the stones in the street and the streamlined electric trolly cars noiselessly carrying their passengers to and fro. In fact, the tracks are so well blended and the trollies so efficiently quiet that the only way you know you’re on the trolly tracks is to look over your shoulder and see a three-ton train bearing down on your ass. Not good times.
Today’s trip to the laundromat confirmed for me that I’m not only inept in China, I’m also equally inept in Europe. I am pleased, just tickled really, that my lack of cool translates so well internationally. I went to the laundromat with all of our (YJ and my) laundry in my backpack. The door is locked. It