So readers I recently went to Paris. It first started with the flight (the intent is you’re going to sleep on the eight hour plan ride and you’re going to land in the morning well rested because you’re going to be required to function) the reality is I stayed up all night. In fact at one point I looked over at my husband and asked him to slip me a mickey. I’m not really sure what a mickey is but I was desperate and needed sleep. My husband, who isn’t a 1940’s gangster, did not have a mickey so I went back to pretending that I was asleep. When we landed we had to go through customs and I had to pee really bad. I was like “How am I going to go through customs while I am doing the pee pee dance? They are going to think I’m smuggling things into their beautiful country via my coochie!” Plus anytime that authority figures are involved I immediately feel guilty like I have inadvertently committed a crime unbeknownst to me! Like I’m some sort of fucking blackout criminal and could be wanted for all I know! I definitely have to find a toilet before I go through customs. Finally a sign that says “Toilette” and I’m like cool. But when I get to the fucking toilette I realize that I don’t know enough french not to piss in the men’s room. Luckily their french toilette lady wears a dress too. Thank goodness. As I walk into the toilette I was secretly hoping they didn’t have those water shooters things to clean my asshole because is that even sanitary? Nope they didn’t have that so I didn’t have to worry about getting syphilis shot up my bumhole.

Finally we get through customs and I guess I am not a blackout criminal or perhaps they haven’t heard about me because I made it in. Now we get into the cab and head to our hotel. I’m exhausted because of all the energy I wasted trying to “Be Cool” through customs that I have no actual energy for anything else. We arrive at our hotel and as I get out there are armed guards approaching the car. What the Fuck did I actually do? Is this why my husband didn’t have any mickey left? Did he use it on me to get me to go on some blackout crime spree. My husband sees me trying to breath and he said “Oh I guess I should have told you that they have armed guards patrolling the streets here!”  I, trying to do what a normal person does, and not really sure what that would be, I smile and wave at them…the fucking armed guards. My husband slapped my hand out of the air and says “Don’t do that!”

“Okay!” was my response.

We get all checked into our first hotel and we are in a typical Hilton for my husband’s business meeting. My mother had asked me to send her pictures but so far everything was so typically American that I was finding it difficult to send her pictures. I open the curtains in the Hotel and I see a Sephora across the walkway. I was like well that’s not going to do it. Also I am dirt tired and I’m sweating, why is it so hot here? It was in the seventies and all the french folks are wearing jackets. The heat was on in the hotel room. I like it a nice sixty-eight degrees at all times. My husband told me he already took care of it. I think mostly because he’s concerned that I am one of those people that might spontaneously combust. *It was something we saw on television when we first got married and it stuck with both of us. I climb into the bed and I fall asleep.

When we wake up we decided that we need to eat. We decide to go across to the mall to grab a bite. The mall is the “American Mall” and so we find this “American Steak House” to eat at. They gave use the English menu, but we got the French speaking waitress and so we struggled to get our order in. We ordered the cheese plate and I ordered the chicken with cauliflower my husband ordered the steak with baked potato. When our cheese plate came out, the cheese was deep fried. But this cheese had no business being deep fried. There was goat cheese and some oozing puss cheese that stuck to my chin when I tried to wipe it off, and there were other kinds that I didn’t try. Then when our food came over we both got steak with mashed potatoes. We both chuckled and just ate our food because it was easier then trying to french our way through it. The whole time we were texting our kids to have them translate for us. All three of my kids have taken several years of French so they are pretty fluent. Like “what is Pamplemousse?” turns out it’s grapefruit. Certainly more than me, who knows the song “Frere Jacques” and what Miss Piggy has taught me on the Muppet show, but that’s about it. We get back to the hotel and I brush my teeth and get in my pajamas and I go to bed. Up until this point I have not once looked at the room clock because I had my watch and my phone. So Imagine my surprise when I wake in the middle of the night and roll over to find that it is 00:23 o’clock! Excuse me? What the fuck did you just say to me? What time is it? 00:23 is not a time on a clock it’s how much time you have left on the fucking roast you are cooking. I am trying to math it out and I’m like I don’t even know what time that is supposed to be. Am I stupid? Why can’t I even figure this out?

My husband rolls over in bed *because he can hear me whispering numbers probably. “What time is it?”

“I don’t fucking know, the clock’s broke!” I say to which he replies “Oh!” and goes back to sleep.

It was then that I decide he was right, it doesn’t matter what time it is because I’m in Paris and that is all I need to know. The next day we went back to the mall and got Starbucks coffee. I love how things are mostly the exactly same. Mostly everyone speaks english and I had a great day shopping with my husband. I don’t know how French money works but it makes my husband more angry so I’m guess things are more expensive in French.

The next day I am on my own and it’s raining. I don’t have an umbrella but the hotel has a shopping plaza inside. I go there and decide to buy an umbrella. I walk into the store and the woman Frenches it up and I look at her, shrug and say “English?” She ignored me, so I guess not. I am looking for an umbrella and I don’t speak the language and its a little early for me to text my children to ask them if “Bumber Shoot” is umbrella in French? Because of the six hour time difference they don’t need my ridiculousness in the wee hours. I followed a British guy and he found them. So I grabbed one and waited in line at the register behind him, like a fucking stalker. The same non-english girl rang me up and I gave her money and she gave me a fistful of coins. I have no idea if she gave the proper change because I didn’t count it.

I have to face the restaurant in the hotel by myself. My husband had been to France many times and his mother and grandmother both spoke french as their native tongue. He can navigate the menu pretty well. I now have to trust my instincts and you all know what my instincts are like. I look at the menu and for three days in a row I ordered Latte Macchiato and croque monsieur (which is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich that they call Mr. Crock). At night I have my husband to help with the menu and I became pretty good at making things out.

When my husband’s business was done we were able to go to Paris Proper to do the tourist stuff. My husband booked the most beautiful hotel room in this gorgeous Parisian boutique hotel. The room had a terrace where we could see the Eiffel Tower. *that’s an actual picture of our view in the article. It was such a gorgeous room with tapestry on the wall and so luxuriously decorated. The only problem was that at night it was haunted as fuck. The ghost lady spent the whole night rattling the doorhandles every time I was about to fall asleep. My husband tried to convince me that it was the air conditioner. “Doing what exactly? Trying to get in the room?” ask the crazy lady digging into his back. I’m sure he was hoping he had some mickey now. Instead he had to sleep with the woman he is certain is going to spontaneously combust pressed up against him. He sure as hell doesn’t want to go out that way. Here he is strapped with a bomb and I’m like then I can join this ghost lady and keep her company. I mean if I’m going to spend eternity this place is exactly the type of place I want to do it. Did you get a good look at that view?

I left Paris just as exhausted as I had arrived. I loved being there and I am hoping to go back. I would even stay in that same haunted room if I had to. I think I figured her out. I think she must have worked nights when she was alive because there was zero activity during the day. I think I could have gotten to know her better if I had stayed longer. But she sure had me terrified every night that I slept at her haunted fucking mansion. Next time I’m going to order her a Mr. Crock sandwich and leave it out in the parlor for her. That’ll make her happy. *I had my cholesterol checked when I got back to the states, it was high. Mr. Crock is high in cholesterol I guess.

Moral of my story: I guess I don’t have one, but if you ever get a chance to travel to Paris do it. The people are super nice and welcoming and they mostly spoke english. I do plan on trying to learn some French in case I go back though. If you do go and need some food ideas order the Mr. Crock sandwich its super good. Another thing, don’t do mickeys they are bad for you.

Until next time. 🙂