A long day in Lyon

Glad you all enjoyed a post about Drunk College Girls, but at this rate of distractedness, I'll never get my trip postings done, so onto Lyon...and yes, it's long (nevermind that I just spent a great deal of time today detailing the history of Scottish castles in another mammoth post here).

The day didn't start out so long. Because Ross and I were so utterly exhausted from our previous longest day in the history of civilization (no exageration), we had a good sleep in until about 2 PM, where we then decided to head downstairs to the comfy living room and continue our vegetation.

After watching most of season two of The Office (BBC version, the slightly more superior one), Cat came home, happy to get off work early and show us two kids around town.


Our first stop on our wacky tour of Lyon led us one block away to their local pub, The Wallace. This was to be the first of many visits. The Wallace is owned by a boy from Glasgow whom Chris and Cat know quite well, thus we seemed to have supreme control of the bar.


The Wallace is quite unique in that it is the only bar in Lyon that is done up in a pub-like setting, albeit a Scottish pub.

And has a wicked collection of Scotch Whiskey which apparently is quite popular among the French, ranging in price from 8 Euros to over thousands of Euros.


After some fine pub-style food, we set out across the bridge towards Cat's work...



The view from here is so divine, that even Cat, who has lived here for many years, stopped to take a picture...


As you can see, the River Soane is most photogenic...


...from all angles.



Making it a dynamic backdrop...



...or urinal.

After a brief visit to Cat's work (where she works as a French to English translator...cool job if you ask me), we strolled back to the busy, narrow streets of Vieux Lyon.


Aside from its cobblestone and quaint stores, the "Old Town" also boasts hidden passageways and courtyards. They are very old and have a rich history behind them, which I will probably get into when I do Lyon properly on my other blog (I laugh in the face of history on this crass blog). This hidden courtyard features an old, winding stone staircase....


We accessed it (as well as many others) by following people who live there into the building. I'm sure we broke a lot of trespassing laws, but we had to do it in the name of curiousity. Besides, we could always play dumb tourist (I am very adept at that role).


Further along our travels we came across a patisserie (or however you spell it).


While Cat and Ross hemmed and hawed over what to get, I knew what I was after right away.


Mmmmm, delicious macarons that I kept reading about on Paris Breakfasts. They were just as good as they looked. My main mission now is to find a similar store in Vancouver...good luck with that.


My tummy filled with sugary, macarony goodness, Cat convinced us to make the journey up to St. Jean's Basilica, which is perched on the edge of a hill overlooking the city.


I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about a long journey since my poor tootsies in my evil boots were acting up and there was a pleasant cathedral right here on ground level...


But Cat insisted, and won me over with tales of a Roman Gladiator ring, so I agreed with images of Russell Crowe in my sick head. Thankfully we didn't have to walk much further since a metro took you up to the site. And when I say up, I mean straight up.


Though I've seen similar Roman amphitheatres in Spain, this one was very well-preserved, and made you feel like you were back in time with those crazy Romans...especially when you could watch a horrific battle taking place inside it.



I wasn't one for participating though (I wasn't about to take my shoe off in that frigid weather) so I just watched.


After the siblings exhausted themselves, we headed over to the basilica which is just as well because my ass was starting to freeze over. Tight jeans in cold weather isn't the best idea, but I gritted my teeth and oohed and awwed at the church as well as the awesome view from the edge.


Or at least it would have been awesome if it wasn't covered in mist and fog. Apparently on a clear day you can see all the way to Switzerland but I wasn't having any of it.


What I cared most about at this point was getting inside so I could warm my poor buns (cross but not hot). I found relief on a radiator inside an overpriced cafe.


After awhile it was time to leave, but Ross came up with a genius (if not awkward) solution to ensure my bum never went cold again...


That, combined with a quick shopping spree to get my coveted brown boots AND a steaming glass of hot wine, seemed to do the trick. I was feeling fine in no time.

As for the hot wine sold on the street, why the hell don't we have that in Canada? Do people not realize how much more enjoyable walking the streets would be if we could just get drunk and toasty at every street corner? The bums and the binners would like it too. Everybody wins!



That wasn't the end of the day in Lyon (oh no, that kept on going) but it is the end of this post.


I'm tired and want some hot wine.

Best Post Ever!

Three reasons:

Drunk College Girls.

I kid, I kid. It's not Girls Gone Wild...it's Journalism Girls Gone Wild!

I know that there a few people out there who might kill me for doing this but, come on! Don't be a spoilsport!

Today I was doing some very adult things...running to the market, applying for jobs, contemplating my future. And then I remembered, fondly, how easy life was in college. Ah, those were the days when I would work on essays the night before, drink during class, get trashed every weekend, spend book money on US Weekly. Yes, we had it all...

The following is a photo collection of my last year of university. We were the hard-working (snicker) students of the Bachelor of Journalism program and this is our story:

Drunk College Girls

And don't worry. Apart from the occasional dildo, these photos are all perfectly presentable and safe for family (or work) viewing.

And I'm gonna go unplug my phone in case some journalism grads decide to send me death threats.

Nah. The truth is I miss these girls and our hard partying ways. Living in the real world, and dealing with such things as Enty-Level Jobs and Mortagages get in the way of letting loose every weekend. While I understand that we all grow up, a part of me will always miss those carefree days when we never knew we had it so good (all you people who are still in University and complaining about it, enjoy it while you can...I know you've heard this a lot already - I sure did - but once you leave school and you start "real life" - whatever that is - you'll realize how easy peasy school actually was).

Would I want to live it all over again? Probably not...my poor liver would never forgive me...and I couldn't sit through another class of Research Methods (not that I ever did). But would I love to spend a few nights with the J-Girl Posse? Hells yes! When you graduate you lose touch with people as everyone becomes scattered all over the place. At least with blogs and the net you can keep in touch. So if any of you girls are lurking out there, give me a shout! Even if it is to reem me out for posting a drunken photo of you (hell, I'm drunk in all of them).

French Flat

Like the title? Simple and succinct. Much like me...well, actually not like me at all but that's neither here nor there.

It's a cold Vancouver afternoon and I'm pleased to say that I've gotten a lot of work done this morning. No, I haven't touched my correspondance just yet but I'll get to that. My goal of today and tomorrow is to finish William Faulkner's "Light in August." Sounds like a daunting task considering I'm only on the first chapter, but hey, I read "The Bell Jar" in a few hours so I can do anything.

Another goal I had for today was to continue writing about my recent travels (here and on my other blog, where you can read all about Scottish Food). I realize I'm still stuck on Lyon and though I keep getting sidetracked about boots and things and I'm currently wanting to brag about how I went to the market this early morn (tried blood oranges...so good) and didn't slip and fall on my ass like so many Vancouverites who decided to brave the ice today, I know that I have to write the damn travel posts or it'll never get done. And thou shall never know the misadventures Ross and I bestowed upon ourselves...even though the posts pretty much add up to watching a boring vacation video at Aunt Selma's (there will be no pictures of my hairy legs, rest assured).

Anyways, I've wasted enough time. So, on with it!

To recap (as if you need it) click here.

I'll start by talking about the cute french flat we had the privilage of staying in over a few days.

Ross's sister Cat and her husband Chris purchased a 300 year old flat in Vieux (Old) Lyon last year and Ross and I were very excited about staying there. Or at least I was. Even though I spent a month in France last year I never got to see a typical French abode, only hotels (which were also typically French in their own way).

The flat's location was excellent, on a corner so it's bright and airy and situated directly across from the River Soane.

View of the river from the den, where Ross and I slept/passed out

Unfortunately it is also above a noisy bar. This may seem like a good thing to some people, but believe me, it's not.

The flat consists of the two stories above the "Piano Bar."

Cat and Chris frequent their friend's Scottish bar The Wallace, which is one block away so they don't even use the convenience of actually living above a bar. Plus the bar is extremely noisy. The old, high ceilings of the flat provide no sound insulation whatsoever, so when the bar has their concerts you can hear it all throughout the flat.

The flat's high wooden ceilings...and Ricky Gervais!

They had one on our last night and even though we were two floors up we could hear it clear and loud as day. Even through my earplugs, I could samba to the bass. Cat had a screaming match with the bar's owner and phoned the police that night, the second time she'd called them since we arrived and probably the hundredth time that year. As expected, the music died down...only to start salsa-ing up an hour or two later.

Aside from that one drawback, the flat is absolutely adorable. I love anything historical, so it was a real treat to stay someoplace as old as that flat (in Vancouver, if it's over 100 years old it's like a national treasure).

The living room was such a nice place to laze

I especially liked the candy-colored kitchen that was sprinkled with French cookbooks, bunches of lavender, old cooking pots and a fridge stocked with wine and beer. The booze was the selling point.

So French, so sweet

Best of all, the walls and doorframes....

Padding sleepily through the hallway

...were all old stone. It gave it a desirable rustic look that I would love to be able to duplicate in my new-ish studio (hmmm, perhaps if I took a bat to my walls and ripped out some of the mortar).

Even the stairwells of the complex were quaint...as in not painted, not swept and with unpaned windows.

First one of the day...

A perfect place to have my morning cup of coffee and watch the streets of Lyon below.

Spying is fun

The most "French" thing of all, happened on the last day. Outside our window, a Sunday market suddenly sprang up. It gave new meaning to "Window Shopping!"

The French Home Shopping Network

So now you know a bit about where we stayed...what we got up to while we were there is next.

French Fashion: Flat Boots

Not your typical Francophone, but anyway
The minute I touched down in Paris I started to notice a trend. Everyone (every woman, that is, although some men were the exception) was wearing flat boots.

Now I know that in North America flat boots are supposed to be all the rage right now, at least according to the fashion mags. The only thing is I don't see much of it on the streets. Boots may be in, but in Vancouver women prefer to wear them with teetering (or high or chunky) heels.

But the boots I saw in France weren't just flat and pedestrian. They had a little something extra to make them stand out.

They either had corset laces running up the back, had folds of leather crisscrossing them, shiny buckles or were adjustable (meaning they could fold up over your knee, down below your knee or tucked inside your boot).

And because my feet were hurting like hell with my dumpy heeled boots, I decided my first purchase would be a pair of these comfortable boots that everyone was wearing. And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. The young girls were folding them down and pairing them with tucked in jeans, the middle-aged women were wearing them over the knee with skirts and tights and the elderly were pairing them with long skirts and coats.

When I came to Lyon, I noticed the phenomenon was bigger still. It sealed the deal when Ross's sister, a Scottish woman living in Lyon, had a killer pair of mid-calf black boots, complete with all the bells and whistles.

So the first oppurtunity I had, I snatched up a pair of brown boots for 40 Euros. These boots have the laces going up the back:

And also have the coveted above-the-knee action, which looked great left up, or folded down over jeans (the only time I'll indulge in the skinny jean look...just don't have the figure for it but the boots seem to balance me out).



I have to say these boots were the best investment I ever made. Not only did they make me feel like a sexy Pirate hooker, but they were so comfortable. And coming from me, that says a lot.

Which is why on our return to Paris, I had to snatch up another pair. This time I went for black and something with a more elegant, pointy toe. This didn't mean that they weren't versatile. These boots also went over your knee...



Folded down, pirate-style...



And tucked in to resemble a more elegant look.



Not to mention it also came with a warm, fuzzy lining, the crisscrossing leather straps and shiny buckles. The best part of it all? It took up zero weight and room in my backpack (very important) and cost all of 29 Euros.

It was more than worth it to bring a little bit of Euro fashion back to Canada with me.

The Dating Shame

As I was saying...Please excuse this interruption of my travel tales and mishaps, Blogger is currently being an ASS and is not letting me upload my photos at the moment (and what was it with that hideous toolbar at the top?) So I’ll leave my photogenic ramblings for a later date and instead blog about something that Indy touched on recently.

In Indy’s post, he talked about the different types of dating. I found myself having a hard time relating to it because I’m not too experienced in the dating game myself and it really just got me thinking:

Is it just me, or does dating seem like a major pain in the ass these days?

Every other blog I stumble upon, honest people in the dating world dish about the difficulties in finding a good mate (or a good fuck). Whether it’s where to meet men, or how to pick up women, or which dating website to join, or am I being too picky and so on, it just seems to me that dating has taken on a horrible life of it’s own. It no longer seems fun and frivolous but a difficult and disappointing ordeal.

I may not be the best person to make these observations since I am happily coupled up. But that does not mean I am still not the person I was who was single for three years.

During my singlehood I was not dating. I had no interest in it whatsoever. Of course, that isn’t to say I didn’t lust/crush after certain guys, that I didn’t ask my friends to set me up with any eligible bachelors (which never happened since no one ever seems to know any eligible bachelors) and that I didn’t occasionally bitch/whine/mope/cry about being single.

Funnily enough, it wasn’t the thought of sharing my life with someone or getting some action that made me want to end my single days. The only real reason I bitched about not getting any men was because I found it was horribly insulting that no men were going after me. Deep down it wasn’t a matter of company or love but of pure ego. I wanted men interested in me and that was pretty much the extent of my “coupled desires.”

So for three years, I turned a blind eye to dates. It seemed like a big waste of time to be honest. I think I may have gone on one of two of them, only to find out that they were nice enough guys but just not “enough” for me. Was I being too picky? Perhaps. But they were my standards and I wasn’t going to settle for anything less than what my heart told me. It wasn’t a matter of “oh this guys not tall enough” or “he doesn’t like Mystery Science Theatre 3000,” but more about a lack of connection. I knew girls who would just stay with guys because the guys were interested in them, or thought it would look good, or were just too afraid to be alone. But I was too damn independent to be one of those girls. So instead I told myself “It will happen when it happens.”

That didn’t mean that my three years in singledom (and a hell of a dry spell) were easy. They weren’t and there were days when I would cry over and over again “What the hell is wrong with me? Why don’t I have a boyfriend? Why don’t guys like me?” To which my self-pity was answered by my mother or Kiwi with the good old “It’ll happen when you stop looking.”

“But I’m not looking!” I would cry out, even though deep down, beneath the independence and frivolity, I was looking. Not enough to date, not enough to get involved, but looking in the sense of hope that one day the right guy would just come along. I just didn’t know it.

On the whole though, as I decided to give dating the brush-off, I focused my life on the things I wanted to do. Instead of dealing with men and dating and all the freakin’ baggage that came with it, I wrote scripts, traveled the world, made friends, read books, went to school. I spent my energies on myself and did my best to keep myself in line.

And then one day while vacationing in Palm Springs, after a depressing week of being sick and depressed (and it was my 24th birthday too), I got out of my bed and felt a rush of something. I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to travel write, I wanted to see the world, I wanted to have adventures and fill my head with as much knowledge as possible. I knew that I was lucky to be single to be in the prime of my life and that if I wasn’t single I couldn’t possibly do half the things I wanted to if I was coupled up (at least not with my then jaded view of dating).

It was at the moment that I stopped looking.

A few weeks later I met my boyfriend. We’ve been together for a year next month and let me tell you, it was more than worth the wait.

Now I know that there are a lot of people out there who love dating for their own reasons (if not for the fact that it can be fun and it can’t hurt to meet new people). And I’m not saying my attitude towards it is a very popular one. After all, patience isn’t something people have in this day and age where we all hardwired for instant gratification.

But I do think, to those people who are sick of the dating scene, sick of being rejected/having to do the rejecting, sick of being let down and just plain tired of it all, that maybe it can’t hurt to just wait it out.

That’s not to say that if a cute guy gives you his number that you shouldn’t call. By all means, call and go on a date and suss that out. But as for stressing over where to meet people and fretting over not being in a relationship, how about you just enjoy who you are as a single person with a lot to offer and just let things come to you. It might seem a little idealistic and naïve to most, but taking a little time to focus on yourself and what you have instead of what you don’t have and how to get it, can’t hurt.

Good things come to those who wait, right?

The Longest Day

With apologies this is going to be a very long post (if you can't tell from the title already). I could make it shorter but that would mean I would have to cut out my photographs and I'm sorry but photos are just too much fun. So, on with it...

To answer Vegas Princess's comment in the previous post, yes the first thing Ross did when he landed was light up. A cigarette of course, not with glee at the fact of being in Paris...we were a bit too grumpy for that.


Doesn't he look determined?

See, I had never gone backpacking with boots before (it was always spring or summer on my travels, not winter) and my boots were absolutely killing me (even though I had been sitting down in a plane for the last day but hey they had swollen to the size of a small pony). And when my feet hurt, I get grumpy. And when I lack sleep, I get grumpy. And when I know relief and sleep is a very far off prospect, I get grumpy.

So I got grumpy and snapped a bit at Ross. He didn't seem to mind though since all he cared about was filling his veins with nicotine. I then realized one of the great advantages of traveling alone. When you get grumpy and irritable, no one suffers but yourself. And you don't actually suffer all that much since being bitchy can be fun sometimes. But here I was with my dear boyfriend and I didn't want him to bear the brunt of it.

So after putting on another pair of boots from backpack and finally figuring out which damn bus to take to the Gare de Lyon, I perked up a bit...if not for the sake of Ross and avoiding making his vacation a living hell.

There again was another difference. Now that I was traveling with someone, I had slacked off a bit on the research. This I cannot explain since researching and planning trips is a fun obsession for me. Just look at my bookshelf and you will see 15 well-worn Lonely Planets, Rough Guides and Let's Gos. Travel planning is my passion and yet this trip I did nothing of the sort. I didn't even look up how to get from the airport to the train station, which is something I usually would have memorized by heart. But no matter, Ross and I were flying by the seat of our pants.

Our plan for the day was also hastily put together. We had 6 hours until we had to catch the TGV train to Lyon out of the Gare de Lyon train station. What we were going to do for the time we didn't know. Originally I was thinking we could go to the Eiffel Tower or something but by the time we got to the station (traffic aint fun in Paris), found the lockers to put our bags in (after an hour of wondering around the station looking for them and me complaining about my sore tootsies), we really didn't have much enery to do anything. Except eat. And sleep.



As sleeping was out of the question, we decided to eat at a cafe across from the train station. It was busy as hell which is always a good sign and gave us time to get rejuvenated with coffee, Kronenburg 1664 (on tap to Ross's delight) and Rose Wine (which in my rusty French I asked for in a cup and not a glass...something I would continue to do for the rest of my trip).


Waiting for the caffeine to hit me.

Then the food came which was...amazing...to say the least. Ross ordered a hot dog which looked like a bun with cheese and a dog hidden underneath.



I ordered a Croque Provence, which is a version of a Croque Monsieur, which I always ordered last year in France because it reminded me of a grilled cheese sandwhich and was always the cheapest thing on the menu (especially at McDonalds). Well, I couldn't be more surprised at the size of the thing they served me. Small portions my ass...



After stuffing ourselves with the food and feeling remotely better (although not completely better since as soon as we left the cafe I realized I had left my scarf behind...and I was too tired to go back and get it), we decided to go for a stroll. We were near the Bastille, something I never got to see last year (because I heard there was nothing really to see there anyway). I was right about that, with the only remains of the famous prison being a monument or two. But the walk was enjoyable as not only did it lead us through streets of festive cheer...







...but it led us to another bar/cafe where we had more rose wine and beer. Unfortunately my plan to get us hammered before our train fell short as it only took one more drink to make us feel sick and tired. We decided that venturing afar was out of the question and the smartest thing to do would be to just mosey down to the Seine and then walk back to the train station. Going any further would probably have resulted in us falling off the Eiffel Tower or missing our train (I would've put my money on the latter although jetlag does do some funny things to you).

The results of our efforts took us to a wee park on the Isle-St.Louis where we contemplated Paris...


existentialism...



and art...



After we exhausted ourselves with our worldliness, we made our way back to the train station and onto our train where we promptly passed out. I tried to stay awake, to enjoy the waning countryside zipping past us at 300km an hour but I failed miserably. We fell asleep with our heads on each other's shoulders (must have been a cute sight in itself) and woke up to the train pulling into the station. Well, at least announcing that it was pulling into the station, which then caused everyone to leap out of their chairs and make a crowded, mad dash to their bags, only to find out there were some problems with the track and no one would be going anywhere for 15 minutes. I was definetly not in the mood to stand, crushed between my backpack and the wall so I squeezed back to my seat, to the obvious distaste of two French ladies. Whatever, my feet hurt.

The pain got worse as soon as we got into the station (which is called Lyon Part Dieux...I don't know why it's part-God and not full-God but whatever. Those silly French)and we found Ross's sister Cat, whom we were gratefully staying with in her and her husband Chris's flat for the next few days.

Because parking is such a pain in the ass in Lyon, we were metroing it and walking back to the place, which would have been fine on any other day but this one. I tried not to appear like a right bitch to poor Cat and Ross but I was failing miserably. In the end, I soldiered on through the city, barely noticing the sights and keeping my mouth shut lest I start spewing obscenities about my tender tootsies.

When we finally got back to their flat (which is the most quaint, adorable and oh-so French flat that I have ever seen...which I will go into more detail in the next post) all we wanted to do was pass out. But Cat and Chris had gone through the trouble of making reservations at their favourite Bouchon Lyonnaise. Lyon is famous for being the gourmet capital of France, if not the world, and there were tons of these wee restaurants that specialized in Lyonnaise cuisine.

Promising that the restuarant was only a short walk away, Ross and trudgeneod on like the good sports we were.


Ross, Cat and Chris in front of the Bouchon Lyonnaise

The Bouchon was cute as a button, with locals in it, not tourists (again, always a good sign). The menu had set prices or you could pick a la carte:



Cat ordered us a typical Lyonnaise drink which combined two of my favourite things...Ribena and red wine. Even Ross had a glass, which was amazing since he hates wine with a passion (I know, he's missing so much). It was the Ribena (or Creme de Casis) in it that sold him.



Needless to say, I don't think he liked it very much. I drank the rest of it.



I don't know if I was acting crazy because of the extra wine though because at one point the French waitress asked me (through the simultaneous interpretation of Cat) is I was Paris Hilton. What scared me the most about that was that she was dead serious. I should have pretended I was. Score some free wine!

Then it was time to dabble in the famous cuisine. I started by ordering French Onion soup...which I suppose would just be called Onion Soup.



Then for some strange reason I followed that with a plate of Escargot. Now, I've had escargot before, but the way we do it in Canada is fry the snails until they are unrecognizable piles of goo (sounds good, doesn't it), mask the taste with heaps of garlic and pile mounds of butter and cream on them.

But here, in the birthplace of eating snails and other weird things, they prefer to handle it a little more delicately. Although it was good and I ate every single one (forced myself to, anyway), you could tell exactly what you were eating with every bite. That made stuffing them down my throat and wee bit harder than normal.



Suffice to say, by the time the meal was over, it was 11PM and Ross and I hadn't slept for a good 36 hours. We were buzzed, jet-lagged and full of ducks and snails. We somehow made it to our bed, passed out and woke up at 2 the next afternoon...where yet another day of adventures and damage to the liver awaited us.

Why people need teleporters

Sorry for the tease and then the delay. Jetlag has a funny way of making you curl up in bed and not come out. I started half this post yesterday and then passed out on the keyboard like thisssfhjgkjhlhkj;lkjkj.

I wish I had something more exciting to blog about but I don't. I mean, I do...but I like to (feel I have to) blog chronologicaly, even though all I want to do is TELL YOU WHAT I GOT FOR XMAS! That will have to wait, though, for a later time, even though IT WAS THE BEST XMAS EVER...yeah, well it was, but that doesn't matter, I'll get to that eventually and the fact that my present from Ross came in THIS BOX:






But that's neither here nor there...and doesn't have anything to do with New Year's Eve on the Champs Elysee which was so freaking cool (and slightly scary) that I just have to tell- no. I'll have to save that for later too. And the Moulin Rouge.

Where was I? Oh yes, not having anything exciting to blog about. Well, there is of course Lyon and the journey there which wasn't so exciting per say as it was annoying and exhausting. The journey, not Lyon. It is tempting to blog that the flight to Paris crash landed on a desert island and now I'm running around, torn between a spinal surgeon with lots of tatooes and a southern bad-ass with nice hair. But sadly, if this story were the case, I would lack the internet reception to blog about it. So I must do with the truth.

On December 19th and Ross and I were set to drive down to Seattle to catch our flight the next day. As you may have read before, the previous day I experienced a meltdown of sorts as I thought I lost my passport (again). Thankfully that disaster was averted, although there was one thing that didn't help. Ross and I ordered his sister's Xmas presents from Sephora on two different orders (the more orders I make, the more samples I get mwahaha). Anyway, despite me choosing the express shipping for $15 extra, the package, which was due to arrive on the 19th mind you, did not in fact arrive at all. Not only did this mean that we didn't have presents for one of his sisters but that when the package finally did arrive, I wouldn't be home to recieve it and the post office isn't too generous with holding on for packages for a lengthy amount of time.

So our drive to Seattle late that night was peppered with bits of anxiety about getting Joanne (his sister) a gift (we did a quick run into Bath and Body Works at a roadside mall, where Ross picked up a MP3 player for $25...and yes this was a real electronic device and wasn't made of soap), and me thinking that I lost Ross's bankcard at a gas station. But I didn't.

The next morning (early), after a comfortable stay at the Seatac Super 8 motel and after Ross had a hurried morning cigarette, we checked into our flight. This is when the fun began.

In the airport Ross went to go buy a pack of cigarettes from the magazine store. He got his pack of Camels, purchased a pack lof lighters (had to throw out the lighter I gave him from Mexico, the one with women's taught and bare bottoms on it, at airport security...something that would become a running theme throughout the trip) and got ready to have a smoke.

Only you can't smoke in the Seatac airport, which had Ross gritting his teeth about the impending 5 hour flight to New York (where we were to connect to our flight to Paris). I know that this whole anti-smoking thing is good, but what ever happened to the smoking lounges? And why the hell do they sell cigarettes in the airport, for that matter? Anyway, I then realized what I was up against. Early morning wake-up, plus lack of sleep (due to trip excitement) plus no smoking was not going to make Ross the most cheerful person to be around. And I had to sit next to him.

Luckily Ross handled the flight with ease and you couldn't tell that he was suffering from nicotine withdrawal (except for the nail biting). He was also preoccupied with the fact that we were sitting next to J. David Markham who was annoyed he was unable to get first class and was due to give a speech on Napolean in NYC. Ross was convinced that this J. David Markham person was famous and spent most of the flight trying to suss him out (without staring at him like a creepy stalker). A quick trip to Google when I got home proved that he actually is someone mildly famous (and probably very famous for history buffs). You can read about him here.

Once the plane landed in JFK (wonderful view of Manhattan as we flew over it...sigh, I must go to New York next) we were pretty much boarding our next flight. Thankfully the gate was right next door so we got there on time, even though this meant that Ross still couldn't have a cigarette (there was no time and this airport didn't allow smoking anyway).

At this point Ross had gone 9 hours without a cigarette. We lucked out that we had two seats next to each other, so I had window and he had the aisle. What we didn't luck out on was the fact that there were two brats sitting in front of us, preventing us from getting any sleep. If the boy wasn't hacking up a lung in a pnemonia-induced frenzy, the girl was playing Disney movies on her portable DVD player. Loud. And not using headphones.

Despite my earplugs in and Ross with his MP3 player on at full blast, we could still hear the damn thing. And it wasn't just us, other people were giving the kids dirty looks. I was reserving my dirty looks to the stuck-up parents who kept glancing over at their kids, ignoring the sound and averting his eyes from my wrathful ones. Even the flight attendents were starting to take notice and hinted many times to the stupid father by saying "Do you not have earphones for that?" He dismissed them as if to say, "Earphones? What are we, barbarians?"

Regardless, a combined annoyed look from me and a French guy sitting across the aisle resulted in a different steward bringing over earphones and make the kids wear them. Relief, but by then I had missed out on getting any sleep and Paris was only two hours away.

So, as you can imagine, it was more than a relief to finally touch down in Paris. Even though our journey was far from over yet.

To be continued shortly....


Voila, in Paris and without a night's sleep

She's baaaack

Well, barely. I'm currently coping with a surprisingly mild case of Jetlag (I say this now but just wait) and the fact that it is snowing outside. Not happy white flakes but slushy, Vancouver crap. Would have been fine and dandy had this happened over Xmas, but noooooo. Happy New Year, here is some shit snow!

Anyhoo, I feel moderately bad about not updating this blog, but now that I have returned to my sedentary life, I fear I won't have much else to do. Except excercise and diet my heart out (I brought 10 pounds back with me as a souvenir, as expected), do my schoolwork and keep to my resolutions. I normally don't make resolutions since they all end up being a load of crap anyway, but this time I thought I should make some "2007 Goals." (That should read as goals for 2007 and not that I've made 2007 goals for myself, because, let's face it, that's a bit extreme).

I know you are all dying to hear about how I fucked up another one of my trips but I'm afraid I just may dissapoint you. Not a single thing went wrong (well except for one thing, but it wasn't my fault...ha ha, Ross), but that doesn't mean I don't have a shitload of pictures to show (almost filled up my 1GB memory card), tales to share, shopping conquests to brag about and ....yeah, that's about it.

So over the next week or so expect lots of wee and large posts about my adventures abroad (no Ross, it's not a copyright infringement)...I can't promise any of them will be worth a glance but fuck it, take a peek anyway.



From the beginning....