Okay, enough food, let's talk about those world-renowned "beaches" in the South of France, the ones that get so much love. Come on, they aren’t beaches so much as they are a long stretches of pebbles occupied by leathery naked people. Yes, seeing a hot topless French woman isn’t a bad thing. But her being surrounded by 14 naked French dudes? Not a trade I’m willing to make. How about we just all keep our clothes on so I don’t spend the rest of my trip trying to unsee Antoine’s junk.
And finally, there's the languages. In America, you can hit almost every inch of our 3.8 million square miles and only need to know one language. Two, if you go to Miami. In Europe, every 10 feet somebody is speaking some dialect of a language they don't even sell on Rosetta Stone.
So, Europe? I’m good on Europe. It’s a nice change of pace, but hardly worth being crammed on an airplane for nine hours with people who actually clap when you touch down. No thanks. Or should I say, no merci.