I finally have a blurb / mini post / comical story / little reprise from my last post (of course I had to explain the commando in a jean skirt story) because not only is it hilarious and totally unlike me, but it also happened in our absolute favorite of the French Riviera cities…
If you search this city on the interwebula you are going to find absolutely beautiful pictures of quaint, colorful, adorable buildings one on top of the other directly on the water (which don’t worry, I have my own photos to show you so you can seethe with envy).
In every respect this place lived up to expectation, and, like this trip in general, also went completely awry. But hey, that’s how I get my material to write this smashing absurdity, so there’s the silver lining.
The beginning of the day was wonderful and uneventful (in the completely ridiculous and only funny for you guys sense), so I won’t spend much time telling you about that.
I will, however, show you some beautiful shots of the different things we couldn’t take our eyeballs off of:
Not only did we get to see some ryan-reynolds-type-perfect buildings, but we enjoyed the best baguette thus far, fresh squeezed limonade & a meringue that looked more like a snowman’s buttcheek than any sort of patisserie or sweet thing.
All in all, our tummies were happy.
Towards the end of the day, we were waiting for the sunset to go down, sitting and watching the swimmers, and adding to our collection of seventy-eight mosquito bites all over our legs..[seriously, I look like a leper, it’s concerning].
When the sun went behind the tallest house, we decided to go to the edge of the cement wall that has beach and building on one side and the clear blue ocean on the other, a perfect viewpoint for the end of a spectacular day.
Kailyn and I had just talked about how we needed to take in the good moments & focus on being present instead of just snapping pictures or taking for granted the beauty before us.
[Basically, we were about to get real existential and sh*t].
As we sat there in silence, we began to grow hot, sticky & uncomfortable (granted, this was because of the topless 70-something woman swimming just feet from us, but uncomfortable nonetheless).
[I also forgot to mention the fact that this place is fuh-reakin hott. Like sun-beating down, lobster-like skin & burnt-toast-scalp weather, but also muggy as all hell. You can imagine that the warmest person on this earth doesn’t do so spectacularly with that, so I had a very consistent river of sweat beads trailing from the nape of my stubby neck to the small of my back and, well, further south].
After a good amount of silent melting, we caught each other’s peripherals, and shared a psychic conversation:
“So…should we just jump in clothed?”
“Naw, my skirt won’t dry and we have to sit on the train home in like an hour’”
“I mean we can’t be a worse sight than wrinkles over there”
Within minutes we were stripping down to our chonies.
This. Water. Was. Perfect.
There was so much g-dang salt in this very shallow part of the Atlantic that you pretty much were unable to sink. This made it easier for this non-athlete to tread water for as long as an hour…bless up.
We floated & pruned up & soaked in every cooling minute, not at all minding the family of starers just 10 ft away.
[Yada yada it was the most unreal & humbling thing yada yada I get why people write sonnets and poems about beautiful stuff and sh*t]
The good stuff comes when we exited the water, only to realize that I couldn’t put my underwear and bra back on…
Of course they were sopping wet & my skirt was (naturally) the trendiest of light washes, so it would have looked like I peed myself, or worse used a bidet VERY incorrectly.
Clearly, the solution was commando.
In a short jean skirt.
I don’t ever go commando.
Even if one does go commando once in awhile, I sincerely doubt it is in a short jean skirt.
So picture this for a second:
We haven’t yet nourished ourselves, we are dripping wet, mascara running & braless (and let’s face it, you all know with the F’s I am carrying around that is not a normal or pretty sight – gravity has been a switch b*tch to those things) and off to eat dinner.
Basically, we really sat in a restaurant this way.
And walk to the train this way.
We had to stand on the side of the street when the train conductor told us that the last train decided to leave early..
*Cue internal glass shattering*
We couldn’t find a taxi, the phones weren’t answering, ubers were gone, busses were off & trains decided to bail.
So we went to the nearest bar, ordered a shot of tequila, and called it an underwear-less night.
[I’m sure you would like an explanation or confirmation that we got home safe (we totally did), but there was a solid hour where we sat at that bar, and contemplated which place we could drink our sorrows away until the next 5 am train]
Damn uber didn’t pick us up until 1.
So there you have it, 10/10 would recommend always wearing underwear with any skirt, but especially a jean one, eveeen if they’re wet with Atlantic ocean water because that embarrassment is better than flashing over 8 people your entire no-no-square in France.
aaaand with that, my classy self is off to bed.
STAY TUNED because boy do I have an EXTENSIVE two-part story for you about Marseilles.
You’re really going to want to stick around for that one…
Goodnight/Goodmorning you weird English-speaking ice-in-all-your-drinks people.
Keep it weird, and keep it interesting my friends.