Page 112 of One Week in Paris
Next up are the animatronics. Oscar seems fascinated, despite the fact that he doesn’t understand a single word Marie is saying. I personally find them kind of creepy. But it takes me back to when I was a kid, when Mom took Sarah and I to Disneyland. I loved theIt’s a Small Worldride, full of whimsical animatronics.
We enjoy a fully mechanized performance, a very intense Victorian play featuring vintage animatronics. They are all wearing masks and are very creepy, but I love every minute of it. This was entertainment in the 1800s. Not quite as entertaining as TV, smartphone games and youTube, but super interesting to watch.
Next, we enjoy a fun puppet show and a very cool projection show.
Marie is super excited when she brings us to the old carnival games. My restless eyes are greedy and I can’t wait to get my hands busy. I shoot a quick glance at Oscar, and he seems just as eager as I am to play. We’re both just small children in adult bodies.
“Check it out,” I nudge him in the ribs. “La course des garçons de café,” I say in broken French. “Coffee boy races… just up your alley,” I tease. The game looks so fun — a bunch of waiters with trays lined up, ready to go, as soon as balls are thrown in holes by the players. The more balls in the hole, the faster your waiter moves.
We’re both eager as we take a seat at the game, a few other players separating us. “Good luck,” he calls out just before the game begins. I have the guy with the pink bottle of wine and black suit. His has a white suit and holds a red bottle of wine.
The game host calls out, “Préparez-vous. Partez. Allez-y!”
I focus on the balls, and only the balls. Ball in. Ball in. Ball in. I glance up quickly. I’m ahead. So is Oscar. We’re killing it. I guess French people are not too good at throwing balls. I suppose they haven’t spent as many hours at arcades as Oscar and I have.
We’re way ahead, and my heart is beating with excitement. One of us is going to win this, but who will it be? We’re so close… I can’t stand it. I decide to focus on the balls again. Ball in. Ball in. Ball in.
Ding. Ding Ding.
Numéro trois!!! The game host hollers.
Numéro trois. That’s me! I bounce up and down on my seat, way more excited than I should be. We hop off our seats, and Oscar gives me a hug. “Congrats, girl. You really know how to handle those balls.”
I wink at him. “You know I do.”
“Too bad there were no prizes,” he says with a pout.
“Nah… don’t need any prizes. It’s all about the glory.”
We play a few more carnival games, most of them involving shoving balls in holes. I win a few more, and so does Oscar. Win or lose, I’m just fascinated by the classic steel and wooden construction of the games.
As the evening draws to a close, our guide bids us adieux and thanks us for booking a tour with her. Oscar and I walk over to the treats vendor, buy cotton candy, and sit on an old Victorian bench to enjoy it.
“Did you know that cotton candy is called Barbe-à-papa in French?” I ask him, not waiting for an answer. “Which roughly translates to ‘daddy’s beard’. Weird, huh?”
He grins from ear to ear. “And we both know how you love your beards.”
I do. I love when Oscar lets his facial hair grow. I take him in for a few seconds — his beard is perfect tonight, full but not too long. I love the feel of it on my cheeks, on my breasts, between my thighs.
“I do,” I admit, a little flustered. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”
He grins. “How ‘bout you enjoy some beard later when we get back?”
I shoot him a flirty smile. “For sure.”
Before we head out, we bother a nice lady to snap a few pics of the both of us, our heads uncomfortably propped in the holes of a silly cutout. He’s the jester, and I’m the well-to-do Victorian lady. It had to be done because we’re both very nerdy like that. And I just know that Oscar will post this on his Instagram to embarrass me thoroughly.
