"You know the Westmoore Country Club?" the frizzy-haired t-shirt shop owner asked with multiple pauses between words.
"Aahh... Yes?" My friend El answered a bit tentatively.
"We TRAAAASHED (long pause) the PLACE!!!!" he replied, followed by some kind of insane giggle spasm.
Buying a sweatshirt should not produce this type of conversation. "Joe Mountain" only wanted to know where we were from, I thought, at the beginning of our conversation but it spiraled into a cross-examination worthy of Judge Judy and ending with our retail retard relaying his best-hits version of weird things he's done in Wisconsin.
Needless to say, people on the mountain are their own breed. I'm guessing the legalization of pot in our little ski-town is not helping this phenomenon, but despite their acid-hit-too-many nature, the mountain folk are rather nice.
You know what else they are? A slew of gumshoes. I have never in my life felt more Frenchified than the last week.
"Where are you from? What are you doing here? Where do you live? What is your job? Are you married? Do you make more money over there? Are French people all bastards? Do they hate Americans? How often do you masturbate?"
Ok, ok, no one has asked me that last question yet, but they may as well. I'm starting to realize that the mountaineers have no boundaries. It's like island living up here. Life is innocent. People chit chat. They talk about their lives and spill every last tidbit of personal information about themselves... and that is normal in this neck of the woods.
But I am no longer accustomed to this friendly informational banter and it's starting to feel like I'm being interrogated by the Mountain Brigade. I liken it to dogs. They're just sniffing my bum and my ginie trying to figure out if I'm friend or foe, but after 7 full days of their noses poking in my private life, I'm just a wee bit put out. I have gained a whole new respect for my Parisian counter-parts and their perspective on American curiosity.
How does one politely refuse to answer these questions? Is it even possible? My Parisian instincts are to make a face somewhere between "Did you just shove a red-hot poker up my asshole?" and "How's about I pinch your nipples 'til they're blue & see how you like it?", then I'll answer with a snort before I turn on my heel and leave them scratching their dread-heads.
I guess the right thing to do is respond, but I'm giving one-word answers for now. It's the happy middle. It's the "I'm huggin' ya, but I'm hittin' ya".
Masterbate? No. (I'm sharing a cabin with my mother for the love of personal space!)
I'm so ready to be back in the land of civilization where people who are selling you Colorado paraphernalia don't need to read your diary to make a sale.