"He'll sit there and go, Dipsy... Po... Dipsy... Po. I honestly don't think he knows colors. Just Teletubbies."

11.19.2004

I Miss Paris.

That sounds ridiculously pretentious, I know, but I realized tonight that I miss Paris, and since it's late and I am drinking (NOT CAFFEINATED) raspberry tea that I let steep for way too long, I am going to tell you about my last Paris trip, which was, sadly enough, five years ago. It involved me, CoolAunt, Joan (CoolAunt's friend from medical school), and Katharine (Joan's daughter). Also, for a while, Angie and her family accompanied us, but then they traversed on to Amsterdam or something. That is where I am going to pick up. As they were leaving, we were saying our goodbyes on the Rue Clare, and Fio fell on her butt. Then Joan told Fio to get some Neosporin for her butt, which made me laugh for a very long time because I was only in the fourth grade, here. But it still makes me laugh now, so that is no excuse.

I shouldn't be posting this late at night. I should be sleeping. I have dance in the morning. But instead I feel compelled to tell you tales of France, and so I am going to, and if these are not enjoyed by my readers... well, I will eat them. Or something.

Anyway, our next tale is entitled Two Hundred and Fifty-Dollar Gucci Prescription Sunglasses, which is exactly what Joan left under a bench on the Champs-Elysee. Then we had to go buy new ones, which were probably more expensive, considering that I don't recall Joan being very good at converting francs into dollars. (See, that is how long ago this trip was, we were using francs and not euros.)

Now we will talk about Easter at Notre Dame Sort-of, which is exactly what our Easter was. See, we went to Notre Dame, but it was raining, and of course there was a line. You think CoolAunt would have known there would be a line, but nooooo, apparently not, so we had to subtly stand under the umbrellas of nice Asian tourists until they realized what we were doing. Then we got into the church, and we had to sit on the floor in this outside-hallway thing (if you have been there, you know what I am talking about). I believe they were broadcasting the mass on TVs in this little hallway thing, and I can't remember, because do you think I was watching this mass? No. I was sitting on the floor with Angie and Katharine, who was eating peanut M&M's, while Joan and CoolAunt plotted where we could go next. Eventually, we left and walked all the way back to the Rue Clare, on which there is this cute little fried chicken place. So we ate there, although, personally, I was crabby and wet and did not find it very appetizing. But it was seriously my best Easter ever.

This ties in well with another story that involves me being crabby and wet and malnourished. This one is called Fio Steals My Ugly, Hideous, Ripped, Yellow Rain Poncho at Sacre-Couer. Which is exactly what it sounds like. She really liked that poncho, I think, poor kid.

Now we are going to discuss Spies. This is when Katharine, Angie, and I spied on people in the apartment building across the street from our hotel room and drew pictures of them. It was insanely fun.

Next, we shall move on to Butter, Not Beer. In this lovely vignette, CoolAunt orders my pasta with beer instead of butter on our last night on the Rue Clare. Luckily, our waiter realized that her French is fairly bad when it comes to certain words (i.e., counting, and butter vs. beer) and asked if she really meant butter. He was a nice waiter.

This might be the best Paris story I have. It is called Thomas the Water Snake. At this little shop a few streets over, Katharine bought a "water snake" and named it Thomas. Then we went home, by which I mean our hotel room, and Katharine continually squeezed it and it popped all over the comforter. We were ashamed to go to the front desk and look like rude, stupid Americans, all "we popped a water snake on our comforter", so we draped it over our bathroom door. But, if you have ever seen a French hotel bathroom, you know that this comforter, the half of it that was hanging over that side of the door, took up most of the bathroom. Anyway, Katharine was generally unbearable until she bought Thomas II a few days later, and during her time of unbearability, she insisted we play Foxtail every waking moment. It was rather tiring.

Even though I have many more lovely tales of France, I am going to leave you all with Elevator. CoolAunt would not let Katharine and I use the elevator, because she said we did not have to be "lazy Americans" and we would use the stairs. So, whenever we would return to the hotel, CoolAunt and Joan would chat up the man at the desk (in very bad French, often asking for the wrong room number keys), and Katharine and I would run up the stairs. We would catch the elevator, which was made of glass, at the second floor, and ride it to the fourth floor. This sounds very stupid, but we thought we were being rebellious, especially the time Joan and CoolAunt would have seen us if they had only looked up a bit more, because they were walking up the steps only a few feet away. It was hilarious. And those stories partially explain my unnatural attachment to Paris.

2 Comments:

Blogger mai babbled mindlessly...

Hey, I miss it too. And I so, so remember Thomas. Do you remember the whole secret-admirer thing where Kathy spilled the beans? And the earrings that you couldn't wear?? Ahhh, yes.

11:44 AM

 
Blogger Kellinka babbled mindlessly...

Actually, my mom spilled the beans on the whole secret-admirirer thing months before. Woman cannot keep a secret for her life, and she really did not want me having a hissyfit.

12:16 PM

 

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