We decided to venture out for brunch while were in beautiful Nice, France. The weather predicted sunny skies and I was feeling particularly brunchy. You know the feeling, it’s a Sunday and you deserve a freaking quiche.
The cafe, Déli Bo, was recommended to us and we were willing to wait for a table. The host approached us and said ominously, “We only have tables outside.” By this point, rain clouds had rolled in and I waved them away with only thoughts of my quiche.
Look how the lettuce has fallen.
I soon realized my mistake. The wind left no prisoners. Lettuce from our salad littered the ground like leaves. Napkins floated in the air like birds of dark omen. Receipts floated away – did we still have to pay?
Children and adults alike couldn’t be saved. Strollers rolled away with babies still in it.
Parched mouths reached for their drinks only to find unknown bits and someone else’s hair at the bottom of their glass.
Menus were blown off tables and people would throw up their hands and say, “Just surprise me!”. Waiters shielded their customers’ eyes from debris as they ordered. Quality customer service.
Customers would hold down napkins while waiters placed down silverware in vain – teamwork was at play here.
No one felt like a plastic bag drifting in the wind, but they were certainly attacked by one or two, entangling them like tumbleweeds from the dumpster down the road.
Though there was not a ray of sunshine people donned sunglasses to act as lab goggles to protect themselves.
One intelligent woman used her turtleneck to its full potential by pulling it up and over the lower half of her face. A classic move I’ve now coined, ‘the turtle-shell’. Genius.
It could almost be seen as an experience.
Come dine in the wind tunnel, we’ll blow you away!
Then there would be a moment of pure bliss – the eye of the storm if you will – when the wind would cease, but only briefly. Fathers gripped their children to their chest in suspense.
A family of four who just wanted a nice Nice brunch (see what I did there?) was hit the worst. Waters and juices crashed around them drenching both parents and child. The baby was removed from her stroller only to have her cries carried off by the wind.
Yet there was still a line to get onto that patio of hell. I’d honestly still recommend it. Great quiche.
Nick cowering from the wind. The table in the back left is an accurate portrayal to how we all felt.
You may not know this about me because if you did that would be weird due to its deeply personal nature, but I always have odd things happen in the bathroom. Wait, that sounded bad. Not like bowel movement related, ok maybe sometimes… The point is sometimes I can’t seem to go to the bathroom like a normal person. Example number one: my right thumb was throbbing as I wrote this because of a bathroom-related incident.
My boyfriend, Nick, and I were deep in the middle of our travels across Europe and we were at Barcelona’s airport heading to Nice, France. We were in a small terminal during Easter weekend, so things were quiet. Too quiet.
When we went through security we were the only ones in line. As I was waved through the metal detector a ding went off and before I walked away the security guard told me I had been selected for a random security check. He pointed towards a mat with two painted feet on it, so I planted mine on top and put my arms out to the side like a mini plane (what a synonym).
When he didn’t approach to pat me down I said over my shoulder, “Why aren’t you touching me?” I regretted the word choice immediately. He grunted and tried to push my arms down put I popped them back up like the brother in a Christmas Story when he was in his snowsuit (just go watch it). While traveling for months out of a carry-on I tended to wear many layers (mystery is sexy).
I looked back and found Nick chugging the rest of the water from the water bottle we always forget to empty before security (liquid bad) as another security guard egged him on (dance, monkey, dance). Eventually, the guard sent me to one of his coworkers to swipe my right pocket and sandwich for bomb residue (naturally) and I left on my merry way.
Once Nick had successfully downed almost a liter of water we found the bathroom soon after. As I was moving down the stairs pretending to be “going downstairs” in a fake-funny way (comedy gold) my sneakers that lost traction years ago made me slip on the squeaky-clean tiles (go janitorial team) and I basically jammed my thumb into the railing (real sexy like though).
I looked around to see who other than Nick shared in this moment of shame and there he was, the security guard, at the bottom of the stairs. He actually shook his head. People do that! People unironically shake their head at you! Oh, and he did it more than once. The bastard.
In my attempt to escape his judgment I turned into the bathroom closest to me. You guessed it: it was the men’s bathroom. Typical. Practically a cliché. Except do most clichés end with a security guard having to escort you out of the bathroom because he had to go get you? He shook his head again of course.
With the language barrier, I think I saluted him (as you do) and walked towards the women’s bathroom to figure out how to break off toilet roll with a jammed thumb.
When I woke up in Nice, France on my birthday my initial thought was, “I’m going to ride a rental bike along the coast with a french baguette dangling between my teeth.” But alas, my dream was not to come true. I looked out the window and buckets of rain poured down.
It literally looked like a movie scene where the behind-the-scenes guy turned on the sprinklers just a little too much. You’re sitting there watching this movie funeral thinking, “There is no way the sky could physically produce that much precipitation.” Well, apparently it can. On my birthday. I’m so special.
So instead of sitting glumly inside, I took inspiration from my girl T-Swift and made a music video. Because I’m feeling 22, bitches.
Let me set the scene. We had just arrived in Nice, France. I had dreamt of this moment ever since I watched a rom-com/action spy movie with Ashton Kutcher. It’s based in Nice. Also, he’s topless, a lot. I’m very cultured.
Moving on.
Topless Ashton Kutcher in the movie Killers. You’re welcome.
After dropping off our stuff (precious, precious stuff) at our Airbnb, we headed to the coast. It was evening by this point and the tide was in, this is an important detail we overlooked. (God, I’ve spent way too much time in Arizona, a landlocked, desert state). I wore a swimsuit underneath my sweater and jeans in the small chance it would be warm enough to swim. It wasn’t. It was cold and no one along the beach was dumb enough to expose any skin to the sea breeze (foreshadowing).
We leaned against the wall that separated the ocean from the city like the locals were doing (we fit in so well). Above the seawall, people looked out from their perch on the boardwalk. Old couples growled at each other, teenagers in roller blades ran them over, the good stuff.
I slipped my shoes off and dug my toes into the sand. My phone was sticking out of my back pocket so I slipped it into my shoe for safekeeping (oh, the irony) while I readjusted my place on the wall.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a woman play with fire (not literally, actually she was playing with water). She would get really close to the water and then run back to the safety of the sand. I watched a huge wave crash down on the beach and essentially swallowed her whole. Like a 4-D movie, seconds after I watched this woman be demolished I was soaked by the same wave.
The calm before the big fucking wave
To my horror I watched my shoes be pulled out to sea. I grabbed them and plunged my hand inside only to come up empty. Further down the coast, I saw my phone sticking out of the sand like an ostrich (or another animal who burrows idk). I darted after it with my soggy pants and dripping sweater as the crowd above made gasps as they discovered this truth with me.
Imagine a phone sticking out of that. Imagine it’s yours. Share in my horror.
This became a show for these people. I heard faint clapping as I tugged it free and basically dried it with my hair (which miraculously remained dry and still looked damn good that day). Once I secured my phone, I had to acknowledge my drenched body. I remembered I had a swimsuit underneath and began to peel my clothes off.
Remember, everyone else was fully clothed. Because it was cold AF. This is an important detail. Apparently, just because I’m in France doesn’t mean people don’t stare at half-naked women in bizarre temperatures. The entire crowd stared down at me as I shivered and laid out my clothes.
When I thought it couldn’t get worse, another wave hit and the time on my [sun] dryer was restarted. I looked up and the grumpy old couples had turned their anger towards me. I waved as they pointed at me and frowned. Looking back they were probably more concerned with the fact that I was this dumb tourist in a swimsuit in the late winter while the tide was moving in. In my shame and experience with angry, religious people I assumed they had something against my body exposure (sexy).
Effective drying technique until another wave hit.
But the cherry on top, the real crowd pleaser (literally), was when the police came. Yes, the police came. This is when I was able to pull my head out of my ass and realize the tide had risen dangerously high and people weren’t just staring at me for no reason. I took a moment to look around and in my self-absorption, I hadn’t realized all the smart people (and by that I mean basically everyone) had left our section of the beach.
A group of five police officers approached us, one was wearing a motorcycle helmet. (That was an important detail, why the hell was he wearing a helmet on the beach? Protection from sun exposure? Seagull poo? Recognition as actor Ashton Kutcher?) We were then escorted off the beach as my swimsuit gave me the biggest wedgie imaginable (but I wasn’t going to pick it in front of helmet guy! He wasn’t getting the satisfaction).
The crowd watched on from above as we finished Act III. I tippy-toed across Nice’s signature pebbles and stones (wonderful souvenirs) and my wedgie only worsened. Soon my butt cheeks had their time in the sun.
Now that I’m safe from French crowds I have come to terms that water damage doesn’t begin to describe my phone’s experience. So I am now the person who doesn’t have a phone thousand of miles from home. It’s thrilling, it adds another layer of adventure, right? Sure, sure.
This is my first post, can I get a whoop, whoop! No? It didn’t work at my middle school dances either. This is it guys, I’m finally launching the blog of my dreams and I want you to be a part of it.
Really though, I will be sharing tons of stories about my normal and occasionally unusual mishaps from day-to-day, but I want this to be a community of funny women.
Girls Aren’t Funny is a safe space for women on the internet. But sexier.
Don’t be intimidated by the word ‘funny’ it’s all subjective. I think I’m hilarious, but if I’m not your cup of tea don’t leave mean comments like a loser (no offense, loser) but send in your own submissions! My hope is eventually I will be so flooded with humor essays that I will barely be able to share my own stories. I’m just that selfless.
I don’t want it to be too vagina-heavy (not a term I thought I’d post on the internet), so my dudes (oh god, I’ll regret that) please participate! I will admit this is a place for funny female writers, artists, creators, etc. but if you have a heartwarming/hilarious tale of your strong mama jama doing something badass and inspiring send that shit in!
I started GAF because I was tired of hearing the phrase, “girls aren’t funny”. It’s that simple. Don’t you love proving people wrong? Or is that just me? I love rubbing things in. It’s therapeutic no matter what my therapist says.
A little bit of background on myself before I start publishing all my deep dark secrets. I’m currently traveling with my best friend & lover, Nicholas, and my most recent adventures will probably be in random countries with him. I am not a travel journalist, I just journal about travels. It’s a cute journal, leatherbound, actually.
I also talk about my childhood a lot when I’m drunk or feeling especially like a celebrity who deserves a memoir. I’ve lived in several states in America and my ENTIRE family lives in Ireland. It’s complicated, I’ll get to it eventually.
The cafe, Déli Bo, was recommended to us and we were willing to wait for a table. The host approached us and said ominously, “We only have tables outside.” By this point, rain clouds had rolled in and I waved them away with only thoughts of my quiche.
