I shall try to squeeze in as much as I can in the 25 minutes allotted to me, since I've found a keyboard for les anglais. I'm over by the Gare du Nord, in the 18th arrondissement, and I'm trekking my way up to Sacre Coeur, just for kicks. I've gotten my ticket back to London and I have a hard time believing that my whirlwind trip will be done in less than a week. This has been an unbelievable and breath taking experience.

And I'm in love.

But more about that later; I didn't mention last night that I had my first little-girl-lost experience last night--in stereo, in fact. I broke down crying probably about 3 times, once at the Metro at Montparnasse when the train to Pernety (my stop for the Ouest Hotel) simply ceased. I stared at the bus map and tried desperately to figure out where I was and how I proposed to get to the hotel, but no such luck. When you're overwrought, i guess, all knowledge of foreign language deserts. And as you might imagine, the French are not prone to writing the happy little english phrases that people such as myself rely on when in a strange city. So I'm sniffling away while all these commuters around me bitched in French about how they were going to get home. I asked someone, in quavering tones, about what was going on, but when I tried to find out in English they looked at me that special Gallic way, as if saying "Ah, cherie, you have PROBLEMS. And they are not mine." The second breakdown was on a street corner on the Rue de Raymond Lossard, where I stood, with my map unfolded, looking like the star of some cruel and horrible comedy about people lost in Paris, and said "Excusez moi? Madame?" to some evil short woman who walked right past me. I'd been dragging my bags (my GOD did I overpack for this trip. the minute I'm getting home I'm doing overhaul on my belongings, I am truly a slave to my possessions) from Amsterdam and all through stations in Paris, I was now walking down a dark street with every third man sotto voce'ing "Bella" at me (bad choice to wear the boots and the black skirt--but I wanted to look Parisienne) and this stupid little woman won't help me. I promptly burst into tears. Not wracking sobs or anything, but the dribble that just won't stop. I was still leaking when an older man stopped next to me and asked in French if I needed help. I tried to wipe the tears away but I was still crying a little as I explained I was looking for the Rue de Gergovie, and he got so excited for me that I finally stopped up when he told me that it was just down the street, about 10 minutes away. As he walked away he smiled and said "Bon Courage." God bless that man, wherever he is.

I finally cried one last time the moment I got to my hotel room. I dropped my 100 lbs worth of baggage on the floor, sat down on the toilet and sobbed. I thought, "What am I doing in Paris?" but even that sounded hollow. Despair and Paris only go together in existentialist novels. Not when you're all by yourself, with the whole city to see, and 2 gloriously empty days to see it in. So I finished that up right quick, and sped off to go find dinner. AND i had my merangue, which are incomparable to any in the U.S., being only suitable if they are directly and immediately French. I felt like a kid--I felt 12 again, strolling down the street, grinning and munching on my merangue.

So this morning I got up around 9:30--they don't let you sleep in in this hotel, no soundproof doors or windows, the street gets busy around 8 and the workers doing repairs in the room next door deemed it necessary to speak and hammer as loudly as possible. That's okay--you sleep enough when you're dead. I got to Gare du Nord, booked my passage from here to London (it's cheaper to get from Paris to London than it is from Amsterdam to Paris, go figure, them being on the same continent and whatnot). I then decided, since I was in the area, to go find Sacre Coeur, and en route I stopped into a little shop full of Indian trinkets and furniture. In there, crouched behind the counter changing CDs, was the world's most beautiful man. I picked up some little door-pull and asked him if it was 5 euro--he gave me a look and said that yes, it was. Unwilling to leave, I wandered around some more, looked at gigantic armoires that I wouldn't have even considered buying, wondering idly if a place like this shipped to the states, and trying to figure out what I could buy to be able to hang out in there for a while. I told myself I was buying a present for mom, but what does she want with Indian artifacts that you can get the same at home? So all else failing, I asked him how to find Sacre Coeur, and then asked about the antiques. I think there was a spark there, I really do. I couldn't really come up with a tactful french come on, so I quietly left. But I'm still smirking and I'm praying that, if I decide that mom REALLY REALLY needs a towel rack made out of tiles for 15 euro, that he'll still be in there on the way back. If there is a God, it will happen.

And I promise I did not come to Europe just for the men, I really didn't. Although as a an a la carte on the entree of my journey, they are truly delicious. ;-) A bientot!