Le garson, sil vous plait

On the train to Paris, Genevieve and I practiced our French. Well, by French, I mean the token phrases found in the back of our "Let's Go" book (hi, how much is, where is, etc.). And by practicing, I mean me practicing, Genevieve badly mangling the language. Genevieve has many talents, but languages are not one of them.

One of the only words she could actually say was "garson," "waiter" in French. Before leaving on our trip, Genevieve kept talking about how she wanted a French waiter. She eventually learned how to say "Where is the condom, waiter?" and kept repeating the phrase so much that I had to shush her in case there were French people nearby. I was bright red. Luckily, the train was about 1/4th full (traveling at an off-peak tourist time, how much do I love thee? Let me count the ways...)

Our room in Paris was a place we lovingly dubbed "the depths of hell," because, well... it was. It was all the way down three flights of stairs into the center of the earth, cold and clammy and under construction because of remodeling. We did get our own room with our own shower, but the beds had about 8 inches of space between them and the shower curtain had mold growing on it. The showerhead also didn't stay on the wall, so we had to hold it the entire time, including soaping up.

Our first day in Paris, we went to the Eiffel Tower, or, as I came to think of it, the Tower of Imminent Death. It looks nice enough from far away, but I started climbing up the stairs and slowly got more and more freaked out. The steps had holes in them so you could look straight down to the ground. The higher I got, the more worried I was that everything would fall out from under me and I would plummet to my death, despite the fact that it had been there for more than 100 years and no one had died yet.

We got to the first floor and started climbing up to the second. Halfway up that flight, I totally lost it. I could barely move, tears streaming down my cheeks, certain (100% certain) I would die. It's strange—I've always known I was somewhat afraid of heights (thanks to my dad), but it was never this crippling before. I was having a panic attack and had to coax myself back downstairs to the first floor again. I refused to even take the elevator up, certain that would break too. So I just walked around the perimeter of the first floor, looking at the city and finally calmed down with a hot chocolate and pan au chocolat.

Francie and Genevieve were understanding about it and after coming back down, we walked over the river to the Arc de Triumphe and down the Champs Elysees. While doing this seemingly idyllic stroll, it began to rain... and didn't stop. Well it did stop, but only for about a minute two times and then it would just come back with renewed strength. We hid out in various stores, including Louis Vuitton, and just for a moment wished we were back in California, if only to not have ice balls sliding down the collar of your clothes and onto your neck.

That night, we ate the Restaurant de Copains d' Abord, which means "Friends Above All." It was a rather expensive but the most adorable place you have ever seen with even a French singer guy with his guitar singing French songs. So perfectly Parisienne! It turns out that he was fluent in English and sang a few English songs for us, including Eric Clapton's "Layla." We sat listening to him and talking to each other and it was the cliche French experience. In the end, he came and talked to us and we bought his CD to remember better times later on.

Genevieve was sick the next day, so she stayed in bed with bread and cheese. Francie and I went to Sacre Couer, a beautiful white church on the hill of the Montmatre that took about a million steps to get to but was totally worth it. It was so pretty on the inside (and quiet!) and the view outside was breathtaking. We lit candles for people we remembered and gazed onto Paris... as sketchy street vendors guys tried to sell us stuff. We found a fondue place while walking back to the subway station and couldn't help ourselves. It again started hailing while we were gulping down bread and melted cheese and we felt so cozy.

We took the subway to the Luxembourg Gardens and finally found the Medici fountain after searching for about 15 minutes. This was the fountain where our dad proposed to our mom. We had visited it once before when we were 10 with our parents, but this time we were a lot more curious about the occurence... what did our dad say? Did our mom get all girly and start crying? It was fun to think that's where our story started, especially since the fountain is "of two people making love" (yes, our dad said this when we were only 10. Hippie parents!)

After the fountain, we went on a huge trek to find this amazing hot chocolate place we had been to two years ago and found it, after seeing Notre Dame (CRAWLING with tourists, so it was so loud you couldn't even hear yourself think), our umbrellas getting blown inside-out and more hail (see a pattern emerging?). We sat next to an annoying American tourist couple who were almost worth being near to hear what they were saying ("This stuff is nauseating after three sips!"..."The Louvre has some pretty good stuff in it!")

The next day, Genevieve felt a bit better so we walked around the Ile de San Louis (where our dad said we had to go) and had possibly the best gelato I have ever tasted, recommended by our guidebook. We went to bed early because we had to wake up at 3:45 a.m. for our flight to Madrid... damn you, RyanAir!!!!