The eternally enviable Parisan Catch 22.

Alas, we have landed in Paris quite like the doves upon St. Francis of Asisi`s shoulders; with a startling display of feathers, dust, grimances and shudders from our observers. In truth, we pulled into gaie Pearee last Monday and have been getting on quite fabulously since then, save for a few transportation hiccups along the way. I apologize in advance for any and all typing errors and the absence of grammar. French keyboards are the bane of my existence.

So `ol Paris, I keep fighting the urge to address this city like an old friendly uncle (Uncle Pappy, anyone?); THAT is how good Paris has been to us. Now, where to begin? We arrived after one hideous trainride into town from Brussels (which I fell in LOVE with, by the way), threw our bags on the floor of yet another hostel and hopped the nearest metro to the Eiffel Tower. When I finally saw it, that giant tangle of metal and bolts, I let out a sqeal that was even louder than I did upon tasting my first Belgian Guaffres (waffles) in Brussels. The locals, surprisingly, didn't bat an eyelash at our trio of shrieks. This IS Paris after all. I am quite certain that Parisans would forget about the majesty of their city altogether if it weren't for the constant sighing, shrieking, and squealing going on around them from female AND male tourists alike. That is the job I have heaped upon myself as a traveller; I am a constant reminder to Europeans across the board that their cities are NAILING it at culture, art and food. My noise effects while eqting especially have drawn many a stare, it is rather comical.

Back to us screaming at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Clad with baguette, wine and water (the three main essentials of survival in this city) we opted to climb the bloody thing in lieu of the elevator. So we climbed, climed some more, and then climbed some more on top of that. By the time we reached 700 feet, I was heaving and we were only at the second platform. I couldn't help but think of Mike experiencing the same thing as a pimply teen--Feastly hanging off his lameass tour group windbreaker like an unwanted house cat. Alex Earjob Loewen aside, we got sucker punched into riding the lift to the VERY top and I felt every part a secret member of the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a la Glass Elevator. It was rather enchanting to ride the lift alone. Lil' Audrey (Reb) was pale in the corner due to her fear of heights, but she pushed through like a champ. We ran for the observation deck like starved children at a Chuckycheese free-for-all and all one could see for miles and miles was a flat city dappled in red, white and the ever-popular black. My breath escaped me when I saw the Arc de Triomphe in the middle of all the chaos that is Paris. I took a bazillion token tourist pictures and when I became bored of that, the innumerable asians taking camera phone pictures of themselves against the backdrop of Paris became the target of my lens. (Tante Marrrrrj, your camera is a gift from above; I am afraid it has become an extension of my body, albeit a ten pound titanium extension, but an extension of my body all the same. Go go Gadget Nikon... so on and so forth; I have taken 18 rolls of film thus far!).

The French are hilarious. I could spend hours on benches around Paris just watching the locals go about their lives. I think the best way to describe it to one who has never experienced it first hand is that they are like black little automatons trying desperately hard to be nonchalant and removed in all they do. Whether it is smoking, greeting one another on the street, walking or buying boch choi at the market, there is an undeniable air of superiority that one cannot help but envy and mock. It is, truthfully the eternally enviable Parisan Catch 22. They are easy to hate, but you can't help wishing you were their niece or granddaughter. Je ne sais quoi, I can't seem to put a finger on it.

After the Eiffle Tower, we traipsed down the Champs d'Elyseés and utterly feel to our knees in worship at the sight of Louis Vuitton. Our mad photoshoot will be promptly posted upon return to the mother of all motherlands. We also stumbled upon the Arc de Triomphe as aforementioned above. The following day was dedicated to the Louvre and unfortunately I was a bit down and out thanks to a wild night of binge drinking at the Tour d'Eiffel the previous night with Rebecca. (The Bordeaux is just SOOOOO cheap; it is a sin not to pound wine like water here). So I dragged about the Louvre (again thinking of Mike being schlem on the steps in art gallery overload) and tried to supress my yawns behind a fan of brochures. My interest skyrocketed when I FINALLY found the Mona Lisa in all her smirking glory. Standing there amidst the flashbulbs, I couldn't shake the feeling of being star struck. It was a higher celebrity status than the mere vermin of Hollywood, it was like standing in the presence of ROYALTY. I took one lame picture and again took to snapping the tourists, their enthusiasm is infectious. Eventually we left, satisfied as ever and spent the rest of the afternoon reading and drinking cappuchino. That night, I ate a pizza that TRUMPED my german potato and ham experience BY FAR... picture a thin crust pizza with bacon, onion, potatoes AND SHMONDT ontop!!!!! I won't swear because my Grandmama reads this little bebe like a night hawk, but if I could... this would be the appropriate time. SHITBALLS, it was like eating every easter gathering EVER on a PIZZA! Any and all Mennoneach readers out there know what I am talking about... I almost threw up from over eating but it was the best. Italy here I COMMMMMME. Wow.

So, Paris has been divine; the food is unreal, the people amazing, and the wine even better. We basically have wine openers stuck to our bodies on those little key chain zip-line thingies, I am a LUSH and am proud of it. The beer is good too (not a good as Brussels or Prague). Tomorrow, we are going to Hail Mary all of our sins away at MASS at Notre Dame so not to worry Grandma, all of my newly acquired habits are justified in the name of the Lord and Chagall stained glass. Pardon my blasphemous mouth, it is the wine talking.

On a last note, we have settled in Montmarte for our last stint in Paris (coincidentally it is the same neighborhood where the film 'Amelie' was shot) and are roosting heavily in a Parisan apartment across from a Thai restaurant. Suffice is to say, life is good. Ever Kim Kroeker's daughter, I spent the first hour scouring the kitchen until I could deem it cookable and after I was done I realized how much I miss my own home. Regardless I am happy as a clam and am heading south for the land of clean linens, laundry machines and placemats in the direction of Jon and Michelle's in Zurich. Three weeks is slipping between my fingers faster than I can take yet another swig of merlot straight from the bottle and utter a nonchalant "Je ne sais quoi".... God bless Paris.

Zurich here I come (the pizza better be good).
Best, Frances/Megan/Madge.