La merde

I was first introduced to la merde de Paris in Stephen Clark's novel A Year in the Merde. The book, about a British expat adjusting to life in Paris, jokes about the challenges of avoiding the doo-doo left behind by the Parisians' beloved foo-foo's, fi-fi's, and other four-legged friends.

Coming to Paris I quickly realized he wasn't exaggerating. It is everywhere. Trying to understand why it isn't picked up is like trying to understand why the French smoke.

Fortunately, in my first sixteen weeks here, I managed to completely avoid la merde. But then, last night, on a long walk home after giving up on a metro that wouldn't arrive, I not only stepped in some, but I did it twice within 10 minutes. The only saving grace was that on this power walk, I managed to stay upright on both occasions when one foot went unexpectedly sliding out as if on ice.

I hope the two hits isn't the start of a new, foul trend for me. I'd much rather go another sixteen weeks -- or, even better, 36 weeks -- until I encounter it again.

Side note: I've often wondered what the French think of the book title and cover. Evidently, though, the book is titled "God Save la France" here.