Europe

The French can party. One night, I partied with them. I went to the Bastille neighborhood. It’s where they built a fortress to protect the city in the 14th century then turned it into a prison that symbolized the overhanded French government in the 18th century. They demolished the prison after a mob stormed it and freed 17 prisoners.
Today it has one of Paris’ most bustling night scenes. The roads here are narrower, more cozy, more like Rome’s Centro Storico. The difference is each road is lined with not just cafes and restaurants but bars. Bars’ bars, bars where I walked by at 7 p.m. and saw French of all ages hoisting steins of beer or hovering over bottles of wine or musing over cool cocktails. They were laughing, flirting, yelling and, dare I say, a little drunk. It was 7:30 p.m.
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Paris in spring is one of the heavenly places on Earth and the amount of tourists is minimal compared to the colossal chaos of summer. The January massacre of the 12 Charlie Hebdo staffers probably didn’t help much, either, although that newspaper’s circulation is creeping up near Le Monde’s. There were only about 15 people in line entering the big glass pyramid that serves as a very artsy security gate. There were only two people in one of the five ticket counters that encircle a round entry hall in the basement.

Seeing the Louvre requires strategy. You must decide what you want to see, not how long you’re going to spend. It’s estimated that it would take one month of daily visits to see every piece of art. The museum map they give you with your ticket is just one fold smaller than my map of China.
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Every morning I wake up to see a map of Italy hanging from my closet door. After living here a year and witnessing the fractured relationships between men and women, I now understand why the Italian mainland is shaped like a boot. It’s actually a woman’s thigh-high leather stiletto and the island of Sicily it appears to be kicking is a man’s testicle.

Italy has a vicious war of the sexes. In Rome it is especially savage. The modern Roman woman has transformed from a stay-at-home cook and mother into an independent, career woman in need of a man about as much as a poodle. Most men are stuck in the early 20th century. In a woman, they want a cook, a mistress and a barista. She must look especially hot when making him that morning cappuccino.

Here in Rome I have many friends, both male and female, and have been fascinated by the sexual dynamics in one of the world’s sexiest cities.
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