Publishers’ Weekly describes Blame It on Paris as “a frothy French confection”, and Booklist calls it “hilarious a fun, frothy tale for anyone who has ever. Laura has spent most of her adult life avoiding serious relationships, flitting And only weeks before she’s scheduled to leave Paris for good?. REVIEW: Blame it on Paris by Laura Florand love the way your redneck Georgia brothers pronounce his name) uncles’ farm outside Paris.

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What happens when a small-town Georgian takes on Paris and a handsome Parisian takes on small-town Georgia for love? How will true love survive? Note that this is a memoir!

Blame It on Paris, by Laura Florand | Booklist Online

As such it is very different from the Chocolate series as a narrative. But if you are interested in a humorous, often anecdotal, look at what happens when 2 cultures meet and marry, keep reading!

The original heart of Paris, that giant, unhygienic, life-filled market that used to be Les Halles, was destroyed hlamethe single most appalling city-planning decision Prime Minister Florans would make in his tenure of architectural horrors. SinceLes Halles had been the biggest market in Paris and perhaps even in Europe, the market that supplied all other markets, filled with energy at all hours of the day florabd night.

The racial and social tension vibrates against your skin as you walk through the area until the fine hair on your arms stands straight up from the charge. This tension streams in along the RER lines from the suburbs, where Paris exiles its housing projects, and compacts into dense, hard energy at Les Halles.


It hovers on the steps outside the Forum, where most of the drug trades seem to take place, judging by the odors and the police busts, or prowls the surrounding cobblestones. I smiled weakly at the little sister I was supposed to be keeping safe. Up and down the street, rivals in the sex sales business competed using their own sledgehammer-subtle titillation, neon glistening on rain-wet cobblestones. We were actually doing better this evening than the last time I had walked across Les Halles, in broad daylight.

I told you to stop. In the midst of this sordid world, Le Relais du Vin took up the space of a handkerchief. From the street, we could barely make out the faded gold name swirling above the door and could see only a crowded bar through the glass front window.

I hesitated, but the hissing men moved closer at that first sign of weakness, blsme we plunged in. The waiter greated us with that French courtesy, not laufa, but not not smiling either: They smiled, flicked a piece of lettuce off my tush, and said that was quite all right.

Wow, I just had time to think, and then the menus were on our table, and he was gone to bring somebody a bottle of wine. Tory, a cute and slender brunette, floranr right in with this crowd, except for the daypack she had insisted on bringing with her and the worried look on her face. The worried look was either due to the cramped seating and aged decor or to the fact that her seat left her back to the waiter. Anyway, even if the food is bad, that waiter is really cute.


Look at the way he moves. Plus, who would want to get involved with someone who lives in this stupid city? Look at the way he opened that bottle of wine. A Polynesian style armband of a tattoo peeked out from under the short sleeve boame his pressed black shirt as he pulled the florannd from the wine, hard flkrand flexing just a bit to hold the bottle steady blams he did so.

Blame It on Paris by Laura Florand

She flodand only spending three days here, so what did she care? He could be well-dressed and straight. The object of our conversation stopped by our table. My tongue froze, and a flush climbed up my cheeks.

He looked down at us with courteous attention. I put my finger on a menu item at random and lowered my voice.

Blame It on Paris

He leaned closer automatically to hear me. It was just a little smile, but it warmed those dark brown eyes like a fondue flame warms chocolate. I recommend the blue sauce. Well, Laura Florand ignored that advice and mixed a Parisian gentleman with a Southern lady, and what she got, predictably, blae combustible. Not only was he cute, he was my hero. Best of all, she turns the tables and lets us see our own culture through the fresh, French eyes of the man she loves.

Do yourself a favor: Move over, Bridget Jones. Charming and laugh-out-loud funny.