I actually managed to get up at a decent hour this morning. Perhaps it was my guilt over my gluottny the night before, because I was able to peel my fine self out of bed, slap on a pair of running shoes, and head out the front door at 8am.

I decided to jog up and down the side streets so as not to wander off too far and get lost (which didn't work). I took note of all of the local schools tucked behind buildings and cafes. Some children walked alone, and others with their parents. I saw that no one was dropped off in a car. Here in the good ol' US of A, not only is everyone dropped off in an unnecessarily huge SUV, but all of the parents bark and honk at eachother as they enter and exit the inadequately-sized turnaround in front of the school.

Next, I passed by a gas station. This was interesting because up until this point, I relaized that I had not seen a single gas station in Europe. I don't think I saw a single one in Italy either.

I stopped when I approached a small doctors office. I wasn't sure what sort of procedures they were performing in there, but whatever it was, they sure had a sense of humor about it. Stuck to the window was an insane advertisment portraying a woman in a hospital birthing scene screaming as the doctor held up an alien of some sort. The next window showed a guy with head bandages covering everything but his horrified, bloodshot eyeballs. The final depicted a madman pushing a guy in a wheel chair, top speed, in an attempt to get away from a pursuing zombie mob. Behind these windows, however, was a totally legitimate doctors office. Okay.

I passed by about 4 more cafes and 45 French people before arriving in one of Napoleons big ass circles from which about a dozen streets stem from. I, for the sweet life of me, had no idea which one was ours. Over the next 20 minutes I would learn a very valuable life lesson: if you want to really exercise your ego...and I mean really push your tolerance for awkwardness, try asking some damn Parisians how to get home. Sure there are exceptions, and sure they are more helpful when you greet them properly and at least attempt to speak French, but this being said, I don't give a hoot what anyone tells you: the French are assholes. At one point I felt like screaming to several people at a busstop, "Hey fuckers! How do I get to Goblin Street?!?!" Alas, I restricted.

"Bon Jour? Parlay Anglay? No? Doo-ay, um, uh, doo-ay Avenue de Gob-ay-lo?"

"Oh yeah. Your first right up here." I think he just wanted to see me suffer.

I finally made it home, where Alisa and I began getting ready for our day. We decided to really make it to Versailles this time. I was determined to see one thing: The Hall of Mirrors. Here is where all the fancy-schmancy royal functions took place during the reigns of Louis XIV through the Louis XVI. It is also in this room that William I was declared German Emperor, and where the Treaty of Versailles was signed, ending WWI. In short, this room is, like, really important.

We arrived at the Palace around 12pm. It looks, get this, like a palace. The gates and building accents are covered in gold. Statues sit atop the buildings and pillars lining the sides of the gates. Theres a naked lady right smack in the middle of the court and no one does a damn thing about it. We laid down 16 bones (and I mean euros), boogied through the airport-like security, grabbed our English audio guides and prepared for some good old fashioned Palace tourism.

The audio guide thing was actually pretty cool. Perfect for an ADD person, really. It let me wander aimlessly, unattended, through a four hundred year-old castle, not having to pay attention unless something caught my eye and I wanted to find out what it was. A sposted sign bore a number you would enter into the walkman keypad and - Voila! - a voice would tell me what I was staring at. Quite hilarious was the English voice with a cheesy "Beauty and the Beast" French accent. Honestly, I'm suprised the thing didn't bust out "Be Our Guest."

Anyway, first we saw the big, gaudy chapel where the kings enjoyed their Sunday Catholicism (a religion which much have been blatantly ignored when they were screwing their mistresses and beheading their enemies). We learned that much of the art commissioned by Louis VIX was an artistic confrontation, suggesting that French Classicism was better than Italian Baroque. Funny thing was, the damn ceiling looked like a Sistine Chapel rip off.

Next, we saw a bunch of Drawing Rooms, or Salons as they are known in French. Notably, the Hercules room which had a huge painting from Veronese that was given to Louis XIV by the Venetians. We saw the King's and Queen's Apartments, including the rooms where Louis XIV died and where Marie Antoinette escaped from the revolting mob. The Hall of Mirrors, which connects the apartments, was more beautiful than I thought. 17 huge windows, 17 full length mirrors, another Vatican-looking ceiling, and at least a hundred chandeliers. Magnificient.

Outside, the gardens stretched for acres and acres. Green, perfectly groomed hedges resembled the hedge maze from The Shining. Off to the side, a guy was skeet shooting. Seriously.

After 3 hours, it was time for our tour to end. We were due in the Monmartre district of Paris to meet another friend, Ben.

Alisa met Ben through Dwayne, her roommate. Ben is an American student in Paris, studying Dance and Performing Arts. He had been there for 3 years, so we were looking forward to another local experience. First, however, we would have to ride the train 30 miles back into town. After we arrived, we decided to take the stairs from the subway to the street. Turns out, there were, like, 27 flights. My heart nearly exploded and my legs felt like rubber-bands by the time I emerged from the Metro hole. I felt like either dying, having a stroke, or bursting into tears. Instead, we went to a cafe and ordered a caraffe of wine while we awaited Ben, who was running late.

2 caraffes later, Ben arrives. He could only stay for an hour, so we ordered appetizers and...more wine. Ben, a very nice soul with a kind face, entertained us with stories of living in Paris and how it was harder than one would think to be an American in France. Apparently, paperwork such as leases, medical forms, bank accounts, etc., were a royal pain in the ass.

After Ben departed, we wandered around the neignborhood, split a soggy pizza, and wondered what else to do. Alisa ran into some strangers that spoke French to her. By this point of the trip, she was confident enough to carry on a pretty long conversation. I stood by awkwardly, impressed by her new talent.

Eventually, we decided to go to the Champ-Elysees, a really beautiful area that had just been decorated with Christmas lights. Up and down the streets, trees lit up as street vendors sold everything from scarves to windmills to jewelry to calorie-packed desserts we absolutely did not need. We walked around for 30 minutes or so, split one of those damn desserts, and headed home. The next day would be our last in Paris: we were going to the Louvre in the morning and flying to London after that. We still had two bottles of wine we were not going to be able to take with us. We also weren't going to be able to drink them.

Thus, we decided to throw a small party in the lobby of our hostel. We were joined by Claudia, our new roomate from Australia (also a Med School Graduate), some girl who just joined earlier in the night (she was 19, from New Hampshire but studying in Dublin, can't remember her damn name), briefly the Argentian doctors, another Argentenian girl who was really nice, and the oddly-flirtacious-yet-taken hostel worker guy.

The night went pretty smoothly until Alisa and I had a minor debate on, I shit you not, the Johnson administration. The details are not important as we more or less agreed on everything. With Alisa and I, it's eachothers tactics that make us enraged. One is always painfully disagreeable while the other is annoyingly aloof. These roles switch.

The night ended calmly and we crawled into our cheap Ikea bunks. But stay tuned. A blazing row, and the Louve, awaited us.

They don't call it cabin fever for nothing.

Day 1 -

My first morning in Paris began with a wicked backache. I think the entire bunk bed Alisa and I slept on weighs about 10 lbs. I felt like a 97 year old woman.

The British guys were gone when we woke up. I am not sure if they snuck out in the middle of the night and changed rooms, or they actually had somewhere to be. I do hope it was the latter.

I am not entirely sure Parisians drink water. Alisa and I had a really hard time getting our hands on it. Downstairs in the hostel, there is an internet cafe that serves croissants, coffee, and really weird juice I have yet to identify. Coffee already has the milk mixed in, and it is not actually coffee, it is espresso with milk. These people drink the HELL out of coffee. It is a remarkable sight to see. But water? Apparently not. We eventually bought bottles from the grocery store.

I do admit our day started late. We hadn't properly slept in days, so our sorry asses weren't our of OOPS! until 11:30. Oops.

First stop was a restaurant/cafe near where we were staying. This was actually an Italian pace, but the food had a distinctive French style. See, the French like to put egg in everything, and their bread is sweet. We ordered a pizza with bacon and eggplant (hello, random) and a salad that had a whole smorgasbord or crap thrown in. We also decided to kill the remnants of our wine hangover with, you guessed it, wine.

The food was amazing. The salad had a dressing I have never had before, but it reminded me a little of ranch, a little of mayo, and a little of vinegarette. The bacon on the pizza wasn't really bacon, it was the soft, fatty part mixed in with the eggplant. This may sound gross, but it was very good and worth every calorie (almost).

Alisa continued to communicate with an impressive amount of French. She gets a little quiet when shes speaking it because it is difficult to come up with all the words when you are still learning, but I think she knows more than she thinks she does. It is impressive and inspiring to watch. She just started taking classes after her first trip 7 months ago and has been consistent with it ever since.

Anyway, after we paid the bill, it was off to Notre Dame! People who have traveled with me have learned along with me that there is one thing I love: old shit. I love old shit so much. The older and bigger and grayer the better. Old.

Notre Dame is a big giant Catholic cathedral located on the island (ile de la cite in the 4th Arrondissement). This thing was a giant slab of old French gothic-ness. Consrutruction began in 1163 and they tore down the old cathedral in place before it (hey, the Romans were busting out churches left and right, they had to keep up with the Jones'). It was completed about 90 years later.

In the 1790s, a bunch of French people were really mad (radical revolutionaries) and destroyed alot of the church and the items inside. It was fully restored in the 19th century.

Get this, Alisa and I went in and there was a service going on! A full on choir was singing and the bishop was going on in French. There was the giant bronze cross at the altar over "La Piete" (imagery of Mary holding her dead son) and a statue of Mary with a ton of roses at her feet (I guess those are always there). The bishop and all of the lower ranking Catholic important people were wearing yellow robes and embroidered hats. I am honestly surprised that angels in long satin didn't soar into the room.

The church is narrow inside, but very tall. Unlike the Roman arch, gothic architecture comes to a point, and the beams cross eachother. The design is repeated consistently throughout the church so it sort of looks like you are standing in a room of mirrors.

There is also a ton of stained glass, including one for each sign of the zodiac, complete with representations of the vices of each sign. Lining the sides were different little chapels or prayer rooms dedicated to different really important Catholic people. There was a huge statue of Joan of Arc, lots of confessionals (those always make me nervous), and thousands of candles. Around the back you can see the choir off in the wing, singing almost the entire time.

True to form, I wandered off and got separated from Alisa. She was very patient with this, as though she knew it was going to happen alot. I met her outside while the church bells were ringing to a tune that sounded suspiciously like "Three Blind Mice."

Somehow, while in the church, I managed to lose my hat. I cannot imagine how I do these things. What, did I take it off and throw it? Did I place it in the basket with the sweet Baby Jesus and wander off? Sometime when I lose things I like to imagine where they are at the exact moment I am thinking about it. Right now, I think that hat is in a big, steaming garbage bin with 20 lbs of leftover French bacon fat.

Alisa and I were exhausted. We hadn't fully gotten over the jet lag yet.

After our tour of Notre Dame, we wandered around the island admiring the river, looking at the different apartments, and warding off agressive street vendors (seriously, I want to meet the guy who does all the European watercolor paintings sold on the street for 15 euro). Behind Notre Dame, there are rows and rows of cafes, boutiques, bars, and restaurants. Alisa, audibly recognizing a "big, frothy beer sign," led the way down an alley to a small pub with a wide selection of beer. She made me try one called Strongbow, a light and sweet beer. Upon ordering we were drunkenly greeted by a French man drinking Guinness out of a straw and playing air guitar to the American music on the stereo. He would continue this activity for hours, not even setting him imaginary instrument down when he needed to light a cigarette.

Somehow we moved on to pitchers. We drank two pitchers of Stella and decided there was no chance in hell we were going to make it home before our night began. Thus, we decided to start our European evening right then and there.

Alisa warned me that Crankypants was about to come out if she didn't get some grub. We swaggered down the street and happened upon a Chinese food place. All the different entrees were labeled at 1.50-2 euros each, so we ordered all kinds of garbage. Turns out, this crap was sold by weight, so we ended up spending 20 euro for what would cost 9 bones and Panda Express. Dammit.

After scarfing down microwave re-heated French-Chinese, we headed over to the Bastille area. This place is lined with fun pubs for people our age. Heading in, we were greeted by the French equivalent of a loud American frat boy.

"Where. ARE. yooou fromm?"

"America. Los Angeles"

"Amereeca?!? I 'ATE Ameerica!"

"You ate America?...oh....OH! (Lightbulb) You HATE America!"

Jackass. (Le douche bag)

We entered the pub to find a beautiful beautiful man playing the guitar beautifully and singing even more beautifully. We grabbed a caraffe of wine and parked it front and center. I made the decision to take this man as a lover. I think Alisa made the same decision as well. For over an hour he played popular French songs and random American ones. His performance was flawless. Additional entertainment was provided in the form of a French cougar dancing and swooning by the bar. I think she loved this man more than we did. I admired her tenacity.

After the set we enjoyed another caraffe of wine, which we did not need. I managed to meet my guitar playing lover, who ended up not being able to speak a single word of English. On top of this, he was royally uninterested.

Burn.

Alisa, after chatting up a cute guy in a tshirt with fake suspenders silkscreened on (gotta give him props on humor), announced that it was time for us to get our sorry asses home. It is on this journey where I would have my first great fall of the trip.

See, when you get to the train station, you have to buy these little tickets that they stamp. You can buy several at a time, or you can buy one. Either way, by your 2nd or 3rd voyage, you are bound to have 3 or 4 of those little fuckers floating around in your pockets.

This, combined with the fact that my brain was working at about 35%, made it damn difficult to get past the little entrance thing. Justifying that I did in fact have a valid ticket...somewhere...I placed my hands on either side of the seperators and attemped to hoist myself over the bar.

I didn't even get close.

Instead I landed flat on my back in front of 5 or 6 people, and Alisa. She was preoccupied with her own malfunctioning ticket and was thus unable to be of immediate assistance. I was weighed down by my 3 layers of winter clothing, heavy purse, and noggin full of wine. I absolutely for the life of me could not get up. I couldn't even lift my head. I called to her for help, shamefully admitting that I had in fact fallen and couldn't get up. Instead, I was swiftly hoisted to my feet by a man behind me and the lady from the ticket booth (who came out to see what all the commotion was about). Each lifted me under an arm. It was really exhilarating.

Embarrassed, I dug out the proper ticket and properly entered the terminal. The rest of the journey was without significant happenings as we wandered to our hostel and got into bed. I am truly humbled and blessed at the fact that I made it to the top bunk without breaking my damn neck.

At the time we arrived, there was no one else in the hostel. This would not be the case in the morning.