The Grass Is Always Greener on the Other Side of the Sea
Here's the thing about moving from a metropolis of beautiful foreigners to the medium-sized city where you grew up: the buzzkill factor is high...very high. Richmond is as fine as it ever was and it's a very decent city, but it doesn't have one-eighteenth the novelty value of a city that has it's own taxidermy store/gardening supply shop where mannequins with stuffed deer heads sell you upscale spades and clogs. Just look at this picture:
and tell me that you don't want to go to France right this very moment. It's a real deer head on human body selling you a friggin rake! HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANYTHING THAT CREEPY EVEN IN YOUR WILDEST NIGHTMARES?
Between the deer raker, the group of men dressed as sharks selling train tickets that meandered down our French block one Thursday night, the man who showed me his sweltering cock in a public museum, and the guy who had made a living off of making a skeleton puppet dance to Chuck Berry songs, America just looks...well...normal, completely devoid of the freak parade that trapsies through France on a regular basis.
A week or so ago, the boyfriend and I were having coffee at an outdoor cafe around the corner from our boring apartment in boring Virginia and, I shit you not, 40 people in full zombie regalia walked by asking for our brains. It was a spontaneous zombie walk, in the middle of the day for no reason whatsoever, and being the complete curmudgeon I've become, I simply brushed it off in the classic Euro-snob "been there, done that" way. I didn't even run to get my camera. What in the world is happening? I'm like an Olsen twin, wasting away into a bland oblivion of nothingness.
Bonus pictures of the taxidermy gardening shop:
My favorite part of this picture is the creepy man-hands: