I am also too lazy to flip the names and junk, so just read it like it is (edited slightly):
Today is worth writing about. Today, not even a picture could describe my stories, so a thousand words (or so) will have to cut it.
Zach and I (remember my fellow IU-ian?) took a chance and walked to the Airport with somewhat poor directions. But really, it was a simple hop-skip-and a jump away. The walk there was uneventful and of little evidence of what was to come. Zach, who initiated this trip in order to cash out an undisclosed amount of cashiers checks, was heading towards the AmEx counter when I spotted a Duty Free store. We had little to do tonight besides pack, so we figured we’d stop by the Store after the AmEx to pick up some entertainment, duty free of course.
In order to get into this Store, there was a set of automated doors that one has to walk through (they actually are the doorway into France—I’ve walked there twice). So we walk in and stop at the Store. Zach, in his facil français, asks the woman if we need tickets to buy items Duty Free. She says yes, so we leave. We leave…
The door in had a “Do Not Enter” sign and above that, in French, it said “Pas Sortie”. The only place to go was into line for customs to cross into France. Up to the Counter we go.
“Non, mais tu parles le français bien.”
Zach turns to me, “Kevin, your French is better than mine, tell him we don’t want to be here.”
“Ok, nous na voulons pas être ici.”
“Est-ce que nous pouvons sortir”
“Ah, you made mistake.” (this is my non-English speaking French compadre. Very funny ass).
“You can leave ::presses button and hidden door opens::, bye.”
We made it to Suisse. We left the airport defeated. One might think we were done, but never doubt my fortitude.
Once back onto fresh Suisse soil and breathing fresh Suisse air (ever breathed French air?), we continued our journey back. We joked a bit about our excursion and temporary imprisonment on French soil, and vowed revolution. In the middle of our vows, a 22-28 year old ‘boy’ walked by us. He wore a blue puffy jacket, baggy jeans, and was listening to his iPod. He was a bit on the stout side, and would also be considered short. Oh, he also wore a genuine leather belt. He looked at me; I looked at him. It was a consensual look. I continued on nonchalantly.
.276 seconds later, I heard “blah blah blah quoi?” (That’s what French sounds like when you don’t listen carefully.) Zach and I both turn around in symphony and look at this foreigner on our soil.
I respond in American, “What?” and even act un peu bedazzled.
In response, he begins to remove his belt. Yes, his genuine leather belt was beginning to be removed from his pants while looking, with his angriest face, like he could take two on one.
My first thought: “This punk wants my recently withdrawn money…we’ll see who wins this one.”
My second though: “Maybe he is looking to trade sexual favors…”
Thirdly: “He likes my belt—maybe I should take mine off and trade with him.”
In reply, Zach says, “No thanks!” and we both walk off as quick as possible. We made sure to not look back until he was a good 200 paces away. Way to avert a sexual/violent disaster. It is possible that my superior size scared him off, or that he was so confused by our refusal at his attempt at malicious behavior.