The Bee's Knees

A month later and I finally renamed and sorted all 400 photos from the honeymoon.  Certain of your romantics are all excited now, to finally see super romantic pictures in the super romantic capital of the world.

And because it's super romantic, I shall start you off with a card my flower girl made for my bridal shower.

Yes, Man and I in Paris.  Except that, being six, she didn't quite grasp the concept of honeymoon and decided that it would be the two Megans going.  Thus you have that's us girls at the Eiffel Tower--which may or may not be stomping on my stomach.

Unfortunately that's the last of the cute pictures from Paris.  The rest are of only bees and pigeons.  So much for romance.

Okay, that's a lie.  We did make a concerted effort to take pictures of us and each other.  But it is very probable that we actually have more photos of those two winged critters than the two of us who flew to Paris.  I don't have the heart to count just yet.

My mom is either nodding in understanding or shaking her head right now.

It makes sense.  Really.  See, the permanent roommate loves bees.  And I love pigeons.  That's all you need to know.

This is way more romantic than my face, right?

Apparently you don't believe me because you're still reading this.  Most people would just shrug and walk away and say they are that sort of couple that, when on the supposedly most romantic trip of our lives to this super romantic city, forgets and fixates on unromantic things.  So here's the story of why bees and pigeons are totally romanticful.  (edit: I lied.  Pigeons did not even come close to making it into this story.)

First of all, you have to ignore the caste system and sex-segregated monotonous worklife.  And the inevitable work-related depression epidemic--not to mention the zomBEE problem.  If you believe all that is important, then yes, bee romanticism is a little inconceivable.

But I assure you, our bee adventure was about as romantic as Man and I get.

I feel like a wildlife documentary photographer right now.

On a side note, bees would make terrible models.  They have flower ADHD and jump to another location as soon as you find a good angle.

Bee butt

Despite this incessant movement, they are very consistent about showing you their tail feathers.  Except that they have no feathers, so all you see is their pointy bee tail.

Bee butt AGAIN.

I guess this is the point where I mention that my husband is obsessed with bees.  Not just obsessed in the knowing-every-fact sort of way.  Nor just in the buying multiple types of honey based on type of bee, location and flower way.  Don't get me wrong, he does both.  But he's obsessed to the point of endangering the neighborhood children by installing a hive in our backyard.

Clearly, I am not keen on the idea.  But in the name of compromise, I chase bees for photos.

See?  Getting more romantic by the sentence.  Told you.

Oh I guess I should also clarify that we were in Giverny at this point.  Which is synonymous with being in Paris in the way NJ folks claim to live in either Philly or New York.  In other words, not really but we'll claim it anyway because no one knows where NJ is except that it's between Philly and New York.

In sum, these are all photos of Parisien bees.  Monet's gardens are full of beautiful well laid out flowers and greenery.  Gorgeous.  Wonderful.  Romantic (if it weren't for the crowds of strangers).  And understanably inundated with bees.

We became so fixated on this superfluity of these delightful apian critters that anyone who happened to be near us would lean over to see what it was that had enraptured us so.  Most of which then left quickly in fear, clearly uneducated on the stinglessness of fuzzy bees.

And then we saw him.  The Giant Bee.  He was, I kid you not, the size of a small child.  Okay, he might only have been really might have been the size of a small child's hand.  Or my thumb.  Regardless, the biggest bee ever recorded.  By me, at least.

Giant Bee, oddly camera shy

We spent fifteen minutes chasing after this giant bee, generating general touristic confusion as we jogged and pointed and fake-spy-tiptoed.  We finally got close enough to snap a few photos of his enormousness.

The Giant Bee, up close and personal.

This?  This is the stuff of legends.  And that is why it is totally romantic and therefore okay for me to have more photos of bees than of my husband on our honeymoon.