After reading Nana by Zola, Les Liaisons Dangereuses (by Laclos), and a few works by Stendhal, I have come to the conclusion that French are sex addicts.

There are few types of sexual perversion, as far as I can see. There’s the clichéd “Italian”, who just loves women (Casanova, anyone?), then there’s the British kind where apparently it is acceptable to fornicate in the back street of Covent Garden against a wall (which scared the bejesus out of me when I discovered the said fornication at ONE in the morning on the way back from the library), and then there’s the French kind, who puts up some romantic excuse to err, “nique". Baiser, fouer, mettre comes to mind. As much as I love my French friend (who I have not heard from in months… why does he go AWOL whenever he finds a new “love of his life” which lasts about three weeks, giving me the impression that his life is actually three weeks and he goes through reincarnation every time he breaks up?), his behavior does nothing to plead against the case.

In fact, after reading Rouge et Noir, my mother and I have started to call Julien Sorel “The Ladder Dude”, since that’s basically all he does in his spare time apparently: put up a ladder against a girl’s window, climb up, and fornicate.

Unfortunately before I embarked on Stendhal’s works, I was engaged with Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain, where the only romance comes from exchanging glances with Claudia Chauchat. Very understated and mild indeed. Then I was promptly thrown into the world of Ladder Dude climbing up the walls to err, get into a girl’s bed, and Fabrice Del Dongo sleeping with basically everyone in the village to avoid his aunt who’s coming onto him. At this point my head exploded.

I have been to Paris, known French people to a certain degree, and I’ve come to the conclusion that whoever thinks Paris/France is the city of flowers where perfume permeates the air, chansons stream through the cafes and every man you see is Alain Delon and Jean Malais is seriously deluded. I mean, come on. Chopin had written home when he had first arrived at Paris, and he had said fearfully that “[This] is a terrible place… there are advertisement posters for STD treatments all over the town”. The guy who looks like Julien Sorel is a British American, J’s black book is onto book two and when it rains the streets turn yellow from all the dog shit.

I love French culture. I really do. Their food’s scrumptious and I love their couture. But that’s not all to a ethnicity, is there?