The plane dipped up and then down like the Thunder Run roller coaster at Kentucky Kingdom. I pulled down the arm rest by the empty seat next to me so I could grip it tightly. Whatever happens will happen I told myself as I breathed deeply in and out. You are not driving the plane. You are not creating the winds. It is out of your control. The plane jittered and bounced as it hit the runway. Then it swerved slightly to left and right. If we crash into a ball of flames at the end of the runway, at least I’ll have seen Europe. And then the plane stopped and there was silence broken by the sound of the whole plane applauding. “As you can tell, we have most definitely landed,” the copilot announced over the intercom and finally I breathed out and was relieved to be back on the ground again in the US of A.

Any complaints I might have about spending 21 hours traveling are dampened by the knowledge that 100 years ago such a trip would not have be possible. Instead of riding planes and trains and automobiles, I would have crossed the ocean in a boat. Instead of two days travelling back and forth, I would have spent at least a week on my journey instead of only 20% of my time.

There were other bumps, besides the ones I felt upon “landing.” The French proved they do not understand the concept of coffee-to-go when a barista handed me a steaming drink in a plastic cup without any insulation ring. I was so excited to barely hop on the latest Metro train that I didn’t notice it was the wrong Metro train until the doors had closed. When I did get to the right station, a cute boy on the platform gave me a smile and tried to talk to me in French, but all I could say was, “Where were you four days ago? I would have learned French for you!” before hopping into the railcar. In the line at airport security I suddenly remembered I had a water bottle in my purse and chugged 16 ounces of water in 3 minutes to get through the gates. After I arrived in Chicago, I got lost trying to find the CTA to ride downtown to catch my bus to Indianapolis, proving that I don’t just get lost in international airports but domestic ones too. Once I boarded my bus, after running towards it madly because I had been waiting on the wrong corner, I got an honest-to-God migraine, complete with nausea and unilateral pain on the left side of my head, but only after I’d stowed my luggage under the bus with my abortive medications. Then finally I was back in Indianapolis, dragging my suitcase four blocks to the parking garage, hoping no one from the Wheeler Mission tried to mug me before I got there. Thankfully, my car had not been towed and it started like it was supposed to and I drove back to my apartment.

Upon opening the door and stepping into the living room I said to the empty space, “Oh right. I live here.” For I had been gone an awfully long time and seen lots of pretty and old things, and had forcibly pushed any thoughts of my “real” life out of my head whenever they tried creeping to my attention. But here I was again and those were my plates in the dish rack and there were my curtains I’d bought at Big Lots and there was my long tube of toothpaste I could not take on the plane. Here was my life just as I had left it. The only thing that seemed out of place was me. The girl stepping in the door was not the exact same girl who left 10 days ago, but she would assimilate soon and take over the life the other girl had left behind. There were bills to pay and emails to respond to and cable internet providers to contact about the lack of service. And there was another trip to plan, perhaps for next year or the year after that, for this continent or another, but undoubtedly there was some place to go because once you’ve been elsewhere it is hard not to return.

I think my next book shall be called, "The European Vacation Diet," in which you eat whatever chocolate coated crepe or croissant you want without remorse because you are climbing to the top of Sacre-Coeur first thing in the morning. Warning: Here be stairs. Lots and lots of stairs.

On my final full day in Paris, I finally got the weather I had been expecting. I walked under warm and sunny skies with my jacket tied tight around my waist and not pulled tight against my body. In Paris, I got the rainy weather I was expecting in Britain, whereas London failed to produce any significant amount of Heather Nova’s London Rain.

I woke up when I wanted to and not at a time dictated by museum openings. Then I had a leisurely breakfast at the cafe on the corner where I had a delicious coffee and this Omelet Nature:

I’m sorry to tell my fellow Americans that I did indeed eat the whole thing, plus the three small pieces of bread not pictured. I have done nothing to disprove the stereotype of Americans as gluttonous pigs, but I needed the energy for all the walking and stair climbing I had planned that day.

I entered the Metro to discover that my pass no longer worked and that holding up the entrance really annoys the person behind you. I’m not sure if I bought the wrong pass or if it got demagnetized, but it meant I had to go buy some more tickets. I stared at the lone ticket machine in the corner of the subway, unsure of how to make my selection after touching the screen didn’t work. Then the man behind me showed me how to roll the cylinder at the bottom up and down to make my choice. (And they say the French are rude.) I got my ticket and rode to Sacre-Coeur, a Catholic Church at the top of a hill in the Montemarte district of Paris.

Notice the word “hill.”

There is a cute little train called the funicular that you can ride to the top, but that requires a Metro ticket and I didn’t want to go through that nonsense again, so I pretended I couldn’t hear my knees screaming and my cartilage whining as I hiked up the hill past people trying to sell me friendship bracelets.

The view was spectacular, particularly on a clear day like this. I toured the inside of the church and rubbed the foot of St. Pete’s statue for luck. Then I exited and moseyed around the cobblestone streets and steeps hills of Montmartre. It’s a quaint, Bohemian district of France where many famous and not-so-famous artists lived and still hang out. I wondered by Toulouse-Lautrec’s old house, past the building Vincent Van Gough lived in for two years, all the way down to the Moulin Rouge. I passed a bakery on the way where I stopped for a praline tart. If the line outside the store was this long, it had to be good. (And it was!)

I sat down and looked over my Rick Steves’ guidebook that had mapped out my walk to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, and whoops, I had walked right by the cafe featured in the movie Amelie. That’s one of my favorite movies, so I backtracked a block up the street to take a look and there it was!

For lunch, I bought a Nutella Panini from a street vendor. Yes, I had a chocolate sandwich for lunch, and it was good. They are crazy about Nutella in Paris. There were jars and jars of it on display on every street vendor’s cart. Montemarte is a good place to grab some grub because there was a wide selection of delicious-looking eateries open. I walked through the red light district, gawking at the items on display at the Erotic Museum, got back on the Metro and headed for the Bastille. On the way my insulin levels dropped suddenly from the chocolate sandwich or eight days of sightseeing and I felt like taking a nap. I sat on the stairs of the Opera Bastille instead and watched the people go by until I felt strong enough to stroll down the Promenade Plantee.

Much like the trail that runs by my apartment, this is a long, narrow, linear park is built on an old railway viaduct. I sat on a bench for awhile, recovering my energy, and musing about the graffiti problem in Paris.

Then I was off again, doing the Rick Steves’ guided walk through the Marais district, an older part of town built on a swamp (or in French, a “marais”). It’s a bourgeois neighborhood with lots of shops. There is a Jewish district that was falafel central. I also strolled through the gay district to the Pompidou modern art museum, though I didn’t have time to go inside. I popped into a hat shop, hoping to buy a souvenir, but all the hats were either too expensive or wouldn’t cram into my suitcase well. I bought a cute little kitty change purse instead to house all my 1 Euro and 2 Euro coins.

I continued walking past Les Forum des Halles again and past the Louvre and half the Tuileries to Angelina’s, a salon where I’d been instructed to try the hot chocolate. I’d walked approximately 5 miles that day, so I took a rest break halfway down the Louvre to sit on the sidewalk. Hey, it works for the beggars! Sadly, no one threw me any Euros.

I met friend of a friend, Elizabeth, at Angelina’s who greeted me with two cheek kisses like the French do. She also got us a great table by the window by insisting politely, which is a technique I will have to steal from her. The hot chocolate was indeed scrumptious, like drinking a chocolate bar.

Before I left for Paris, I mentioned my hot chocolate plans to a coworker who insisted I try a hot chocolate at the South Bend Chocolate Company which he deemed to be the best hot chocolate in the world. I will no doubt cause a controversy with this statement, but after trying both, I have to deem the South Bend Chocolate Company the winner. Angelina’s hot chocolate was superb too, but there’s something about the drizzles of milk chocolate on top of the tasty whipped cream topping of the South Bend Chocolate Company’s drink that I adore. So, if you’re ever in Indianapolis, stop on by! They’ve got a store on the circle downtown.

After I cheek kissed Elizabeth good-bye, I dashed off to my final sight to see: The Eiffel Tower. You didn’t think I’d do Paris without stopping by this landmark, did you? I made my way under its four feet, trying to sort out where to buy tickets, when suddenly a mob of people started running towards me. It must be a hoard of rabid PastaQueen fans! I love you too, my darlings! No, wait, it seems they’ve just opened the east tower’s ticket booth. I’m standing right by the east tower! Quick, run! So I ran to the ticket line and waited all of two minutes to buy a ticket before I rode the elevator to the second floor. This totally made up for all that time I wasted looking for the tourism bureau on the first day. Then there was a short line for the elevator to the very top and then I was looking down on Paris from up high.

I love how the city is sketched with white pastels on the canvas of the land. I gazed at the buildings and the people and the trees, without any of the torrid winds I had expected at the tippy top. Then I ate an overpriced sandwich from the cafe and made my way down to the second and first levels of the tower as well. The first floor was practically deserted. I watched a film collage there of movies that featured the Eiffel Tower. I thought about staying another two hours to see the light show that happens at the top of every hour at night, but the good weather drifted off to another country and rain started pouring down between the beams of the tower. I scurried down the staircase, which was faster than the elevator and headed for the Metro, happy to know I could now say, “I’ll always have Paris.”

It was raining and the sun was trapped behind a blockade of grey clouds, but I was in Paris, damn it, and I was going to walk the Champs-Elysees. I only had a hat and a water-resistant jacket, but at least this statue knew how to dress for Paris weather.

My two-day museum pass would expire tomorrow, so I declared museum mania on Sunday. I’d planned on waking at seven o’clock to finish my walk down the Champs-Elysees, through the Tuileries, and directly into the Louvre as it was opening at nine o’clock, but once again my body had other plans. I dragged myself out of bed by eight and had the hotel breakfast again because it was quick and easy, but swore I’d hit a patissiere for some pain au chocolat tomorrow.

Several runners jogged past me as I walked by the obelisk at Place de la Concorde and through the green gardens of the Tuileries. These people were running past famous landmarks in sweat shorts like it’s no big deal! There is so much grandeur and history and postcard material littered around Paris that it seems odd for people to be going about their mundane lives here like people in cities not mentioned in guidebooks.

On my boat tour the first night in Paris, the guide pointed to the large former palace on the river bank and said, “This is the Louvre.” Then the Louvre kept going and going and going and going. It is the largest building I can recall seeing and has more art than I’ll ever be able to see. This is why I downloaded another free Rick Steves audio tour and just hit the highlights like the Venus De Milo, Winged Victory, and the Mona Lisa. The only snag came when I discovered that the first room mentioned in the tour was closed, leaving me lost yet again trying to find room two. I wandered by ancient statuary and Chinese tourists and eventually ended up in the right place.

When I have visited museums before, my brain reaches information overload after about an hour and I leave without seeing many sections of the museum. Having the guide gave me the endurance to hit more sections by only visiting the highlights. Getting the background information on why each piece of art is considered as grrrrrrreast as a box of Frosted Flakes made the visit more memorable and meaningful even reflecting on it a few days later.

People always say that the Mona Lisa is smaller than you expect. So many people have told me this that I entered her gallery thinking I would see a postcard size image. Yet when I saw a portrait the size of a small poster smiling behind the glass, I was probably the only person in the room thinking, “Wow, that’s bigger than I expected!”

After I exposed myself to all that culture, I sat on the Pont des Arts waiting for Francine, my lunch date for the afternoon. As I watched for someone wearing a black cap, a middle-aged man sat down next to me and after a minute asked me something in French, which turned out to be, “What time is it?” He also spoke English, so we then talked about the “situation,” meaning the economy, good things to see in Paris, and he told the peddler trying to sell us a fake gold ring to go away. Finally, I saw a woman in a black hat approach and told this musician and geologist who was named Christophe, “Au revoir.” I greeted the woman in the black hat who looked at me strangely before I heard my name called from 20 feet away and turned to see the real Francine, also wearing a black cap which is evidently popular in Paris these days.

Francine is a friend of a friend who moved to Paris after meeting and marrying a Frenchman. We talked about the French philosophy of working to live, not living to work, and the seven nine weeks of vacation time she gets each year. She speaks French and took care of ordering this creamy, culinary orgasm on a plate for me at a crepe restaurant.

Before I came to France I was told most people here speak English, which they do, so I barely brushed up on my French because I didn’t see the point. I thought speaking in English here would be great, but instead every conversation makes me feel like a jackass who visited a country without having the respect to learn the resident’s language. Not being able to communicate well makes me feel vulnerable. I sometimes get the wrong food delivered to me. I get the wrong type of tickets from the metro office. It’s all a jumble and I can understand why babies cry a lot because it’s unbelievably frustrating not to be able to properly tell someone what you want. Water, food and shelter and basic human needs, but let’s add language to that list too.

Francine also led me through the curvy back streets of Paris to Laduree, the best place in the world to buy macaroons. We don’t really have anything like macaroons in America. The closest comparison I can think of is an Oreo cookie, but that’s not even close. Macaroons have a crunchy crust and gooey insides. I tasted chocolate, mint, coconut, and blackcurrant, all of which were yum.

Francine pointed me towards the Orsay, which picks up in the period of art where the Louvre drops off. The building used to be a train station and is quite easily the coolest museum building I have ever been in.

My museum pass once again paid for itself when I skipped a massive line for tickets and went straight to the security check. I could walk into the Indianapolis Museum of Art with a can of spray paint in my purse, but in Paris they are serious about their art museum security. There was much to love at the Orsay, including the model of Paris hiding beneath a glass floor, the large clock faces on the sides of the building, and the way the frosted panel in front of the 5 stairs of escalators lets enough light in for you to see the shadows of all the visitors walking back and forth.

I walked into the Monet room and instantly thought, I recognize those haystacks. They’re famous! Then I turned to my right and thought, I recognize that woman with a scarf. She’s famous! And then I turned again and thought, I recognize those cathedrals. They’re famous! I was so amazed that this much famous art was in one room that I stopped taking photos right there because I knew my memory card would fill up if I continued photography every notable work of art in this building. Again, I used a free Rick Steves audio guide to lead me toward the noteworthy exhibits since I had a limited amount of time.

Once I’d sucked up all the beauty my eyes could take at the Orsay, I waited for a bus to the Rodin museum for 10 minutes before walking there myself. My feet were beginning to get sore, but I had now become accustomed to this feeling since it was the sixth day in a row that I’d pounded them with sidewalks and sightseeing. Besides, pain and I are old buddies. It’s my really annoying friend who never goes away. I’ve learned to work around its quirks and habits to live how I want to, which today involved seeing some famous sculptures.

At this point, I was beginning to lose my steam, yet I made it all around Rodin’s old mansion and gardens looking at the art he freed from marble. The man was busy. There were a lot of rooms full of rocks. It really makes you think.

I dragged myself to the Metro and returned briefly to my hotel, happy to know I’d gotten about 60 euros worth of admissions for the price of 32, plus no waiting! Then it was off to Canal St. Martin, a recently gentrified section of the city, not known to many tourists. No one here was trying to sell me a miniature Eiffel tower. This was a more authentic Paris, a place where parents took their kids in the evenings to race on their razor scooters and play soccer in the parks sandwiched between the two lanes of roads. I walked only two blocks before coming upon the sounds of drums and this:

An orangutan? He or she was with his friends, a penguin, a polar bear, and about 20 drummers sounding out a rhythm and drawing a crowd to them like the pied piper as they slowly marched down the street. Soon we ran into some people with a sousaphone playing in a square next to some mimes. Yes! Real live French mimes! And no, they weren’t funny!

I had stumbled upon Le Priotemps des Rues, which was quite a lark that I left only to eat dinner at a nearby restaurant. On the way I saw a man wearing shirt that resembled the Starbucks logo, only it said “Starfucks here” and I wondered if he could get away with wearing that in America. Probably.

Then it was back to the hotel once more to vege out in front of an episode of The Mentalist dubbed in German and Cinema Paradiso subtitled in French before turning off the TV and turning in for the night.

I wasn’t sure why the train started playing accordion music on the way to Versailles, but on the ride back I figured it out when I saw a busker hop on at one stop and play us some tunes before collecting tips and hopping off at the next stop. He must hit a lot of trains a day and the man was just an example of how many more buskers and beggars I’ve seen in Paris than London. Twice at tourist spots I’ve had a woman come up to me with a card and ask, “English?” The first time I said yes and was presented with a card begging for money, but the second time suddenly, “Je ne pas parle anglais.” Some of the beggars sit on the streets with cute little sleeping dogs which they probably keep to increase tips.

I wanted to arrive at Versailles, the ornate palace of Louis XiV, right when it opened at nine o’clock to avoid the crowds. My body had different plans and I didn’t crawl out of bed until 8:20, probably because I lost an hour in the time change between London and Paris. I ate breakfast at the hotel because it was quick and convenient. When I filled my coffee cup I noticed yet again that Europeans use real sugar and real milk, not any of the artificial sweeteners and light creamers that you find in America. The sugar even comes in cute little cubes which I delight in plopping into my coffee and stirring away.

I bought a special RER train ticket to Versailles, but I think I hopped on the wrong train at first, so I hopped off at the next stop and felt better when I hopped on a train that said “Vick” on the front, meaning it was going to Versailles. I read up about the place on the 30-minute ride, got off at the station, and made the 10-minute walk to the palace, arriving at about ten o’clock. I was glad I had my museum pass because I got to skip the lengthy ticket line pictured here in the distance.

Once I was inside, I put on my headphones and let the Rick Steves audio tour guide me since it was free off the Internet and not 5 euros like the audio guides for sale at the information desk. His audio guides consist of Rick reading his guidebook chapter aloud, but listening to it is a better experience than walking from room to room with your nose stuck in a book. It frees your eyes for looking. It helped to have the book because the pictures helped me find the right room to go to.

All I can say of Versailles is that it is incredibly ornate and will make even a four bedroom house look like a cramped studio apartment. The gardens make you glad you aren’t in charge of mowing the lawn and trimming the topiaries. They are usually free, but I went on the weekend when the fountains were on so I had to pay a fee, but it was worth it.

I only went as far as the Apollo fountain, but the grounds extend even farther to another house. However, the sky was becoming overcast and I had things back in Paris I wanted to see before closing time, so I hiked and hiked and hiked back up the lawn and only got slightly lost in the bushes.

I got on the train back to Paris and got off without ever passing through a turnstile demanding my ticket, which means I could have bought the one-way ticket and saved myself half the fee since the Paris Metro doesn’t seem to mind if I ride for free. There have been two other times I have entered Metro stations and similarly found open turnstiles, which makes me wonder how much money the department of transportation lose every year and if that is why they can’t afford to clean the graffiti off the trains. On the train back I was again confronted by someone who wanted something, this time a guy with a petition I refused to sign because I wasn’t sure if it was really for more handicapped accessible laws or was something that would get me in trouble. I actually had to get up and move seats to get him to go away.

Sainte-Chapelle was next, a church whose walls are mostly stained glass. It must be absolutely brilliant on a sunny day, but even as rain clouds threatened to close in, it was gorgeous to behold. After visiting Notre Dame, I was expecting it to be bigger, but it was by no means a small church. Like a leggy woman, the ceilings went up forever.

I exited Sainte-Chapelle and stopped in the Conciergerie which is next door. This was a prison where they held prisoners before beheading them, such as Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI. After seeing the splendor of Versailles and Sainte-Chapelle, the plain walls and arches of the Conciergerie were a stark contrast. I also found myself a bit imprisoned when I couldn’t find the exit and looped through the second floor display twice.

I wondered over to Notre Dame because my museum pass includes a tour of the tower, but the line looked rather long and I wasn’t sure I wanted to climb that many stairs, especially considering my next stop. I took the Metro to the Arc De Triomphe and collected another mandatory tourist photo. Visit Paris and collect them all!

I am depending on the kindness of other tourists to get these photos, but it is remarkable how varying their photography skills are. Some people take 3 shots and go into crouches to get the best angle. Then there was the girl who cut off half the Arc in her photo of me and thought nothing of it.

The Arc de Triomphe has stairs, lots and lots and lots of stairs, spreading out one after another in an endless spiral.

I paused to catch my breath twice, but managed to make it to the top. There are two floors beneath the top which hold sweet, sweet, cushioned benches and exhibits about the arc, including a camera view of everyone standing below you.

It finally started to drizzle once I stepped onto the top of the tower, so I could not see as far as I would on a clear day, but the view was still spectacular.

The stairs looked a lot more appealing on the way down than the way up. Once I reached the bottom, the rain had momentarily stopped, so I started to stroll down the Champs-Elysees, a main thoroughfare that is the home to cinemas, shops and restaurants. I walked past Gucci, Peugeot’s car dealership, and too many famous storefronts to mention. I popped into Laduree for a few minutes since they are considered the place to buy macaroons. However, the line was long and so cramped that I was practically licking my neighbor, so I went back onto the street and decided I’d get macaroons later instead of getting claustrophobia now.

I stopped into a Monoprix to buy a salad and some prune yogurt, but forgot to buy a plastic spoon, so I ended up using my finger, which worked surprisingly well. I sat down on a bench next to a middle-aged French man because it was the only spot and he suddenly started talking me up. I was tired and not in the mood for conversation and when he asked if I was traveling alone I decided to travel two benches down instead. My paranoia tells me I saved myself from being sold into an Albanian prostitution ring.

Then the humidity broke 100% and the rain started to come down again. I had made it halfway down the street to Rond-Point, a traffic circle where the shops end. My feet hurt. I was tired. So I decided I would finish my walk tomorrow and descended into the closest Metro stop and headed back to my hotel. I rested my feet, but my stomach was moaning, so I headed out onto the street and in the hopes of finding something familiar to me I entered a McDonalds. I ordered a McFlurry and was elated to discover they have Kit Kat toppings in France. I sucked down the creamy deliciousness as I watched some French television. Word games like Password are no fun to watch when you don’t understand the language. I felt a bit guilty for sitting in my room and wasting any moment I was in Paris, but I also knew I needed to rest and take a break so I could be fully awake to enjoy my trip and not sleepwalk through the tourist sites. I settled into BBC and CNN until finally turning off the lights and turning in for the night.

This is the restaurant that greeted me as I emerged from the metro station near my hotel. There’s a Kentucky Fried Chicken and a McDonalds on the square too. The McDonalds serves Kit Kat McFlurries, so at least that was worth the trip. One item that didn’t make the trip from London to Paris was my universal power outlet converter which allows me to do silly things like recharge my camera battery and write these travel blogs on my computer. To the person who discovers my outlet converter in a socket at the Eurostar station in London, have fun plugging in worldwide, my treat!

My mind had been on other things, like OMG WHERE IS MY RAIL PASS I JUST HAD IT A SECOND – oh it’s in my other pocket. I’d also spent five minutes wondering around Marks & Spencer’s before I left Britain trying to find anything I could buy with the 42 pence the currency exchange bureau didn’t think was worth converting. I’d tried the small pharmacy stand, not I couldn’t even afford a pack of gum due to marked up prices. Wow. My choices at M&S were either a huge bottle of sparkling Scottish water or a M&S candy bar. I will leave my final choice unknown to keep some mystery in life.

As the train sped off for Paris, the air pressure in my ears kept popping. I was saddened that they didn’t tell us when we were entering the Chunnel. It just got dark for a long time and I figured we were going under the water. Then I don’t remember much of anything because I took a nap, but became fully awake when I was wondering around a train station where all the signs were written in a language I only 20% understand and spent 15 minutes figuring out the Metro ticket machines. I finally solved all the puzzles and arrived at my Metro stop and then walked right by my hotel without seeing it, just like I’d walked by the tea shop the day before. I truly go out of my way to get lost.

But there I was, digging through all my luggage, and my power adaptor was NOT there. It couldn’t be hiding anywhere in my closet room, because the bed fills up literally half the floor and the bathroom really puts the “closet” in water closet. As I realized my power converter was not there, my autonomic nervous system started to rev up like one of those black scooters I’d seen all over town. I told myself, It’s ok. You can buy one, and if you had to lose anything that was better than your passport or credit cards. Only I didn’t know where in town to buy one and I needed to do it soon or else I’d have no digital images of my travels to make people at home madly jealous of me.

I stepped outside to go to the Metro and I was wet. It was raining. I went back inside and got my hat. Then I went to the Metro station and inserted my ticket in the turnstile. The doors did not open. The machine at the station I arrived at only took coins and I only had enough coins for two tickets. I had left the other ticket in my room because I thought it was the used one. There were no ticket machines in my current station. I walked back to the hotel and got my other ticket, a flimsy rectangular slice of paper with a magnetic strip running down the back. I saw discarded tickets on the subway floors and longed for the easy plastic rectangle of familiarity that was my London Oyster card. Finally, I got on the subway and got on the train and arrived at the station near Notre Dame, my first stop. Thankfully, the rain stopped, which I’m sure the people at the bread festival on Notre Dame’s front lawn appreciated. Or it might have been a pain festival, but there was bread inside, not iron maidens, so I think it was a bread festival.

As I walked for the three arches above the front doors, I saw a booth for the tourism office, so I decided to buy a 2-day museum pass which allows me to see lots of museums for the price of the card and lets me skip ticket lines. Ben was very nice explaining the pass to me and I liked him a lot until I smacked face first into the language barrier and he charged me for two 2-day passes when I had wanted only one.

“The machine doesn’t let us do refunds here. You’ll have to go to the tourism office.” My autonomic nervous system loved to hear that. I tried not to let my primitive brain know that I was also worried about finding an ATM to get some Euros, because I knew that would cause me to seize up right next to the crypt, where they would conveniently bury me.

Ben wrote down the address, marked it on one of the fifty maps they had in the booth, and told me to get off at the Pyramids Metro station. I walked to the nearest station and gazed and stared and focused on the Metro map, but I could not find the Pyramids station. The Paris metro is far more confusing than the London tube, and not just because it’s in French. Fuck this. I’ll just walk. And that is how I found myself walking past Le Forum des Halles and the Opera House.

This is also why I was walking the streets of Paris muttering to myself, “Stupid fucking Paris. Why am I visiting a city where I don’t speak the language? And why did I think I should do this alone? And where am I going to find an ATM that will accept my card? And where the hell am I going to buy a power converter? And how does the stupid fucking train system work?” But at least it wasn’t raining.

I told myself to go with the flow and not struggle too hard to make my scheduled itinerary for the day. “What will happen, will happen,” and other tautologies like that repeated in my brain. I finally found the tourism bureau, after walking right past it even though they have huge letters in the window saying “PARIS TOURISM.” They had the credit card machine that could refund my extra ticket. They also explained the train passes to me and could sell me one, so I shelled out for the 5-day, 3 zone, pass just so I wouldn’t have to bother with those stupid, disposable tickets anymore. Then they told me I could buy a power converter at the Monoprix department store which was just around the corner and not a mile away like the tourism bureau had been. Big props to the staff of the tourism bureau! Luckily, I also found an ATM on my way and stuffed hundreds of Euros into my pants. After I bought the converter all the stress items were crossed off my list, but it still took my body another 30 minutes to get the message and chill out.

I found the Pyramids metro station, which was on the map, just hard to find because of all the other lines and dots and colors, and sped back to Notre Dame by 4:30, starting my planned activities for the day even though the day was mostly over.

Notre Dame is beautiful and ornate, but I had mixed feelings about how tourist-y it is. At Westminster Abbey, they forbid photography, which annoyed me when I was there, but now I appreciated the flash-free environment it created. It seems like people are so insistent on capturing a moment with their cameras that they forget to be in the moment and experience it now, not when they’re looking through a scrapbook. I also wonder what the builders of the cathedral would feel if they knew the building they worked so long and hard to create was now not primarily a place of worship, but a place for a gift shop and souvenir coin machines.

I followed the Rick Steves Guidebook’s historic Paris walk, which was quite informative and led me to lovely parts of the city I didn’t know about and wouldn’t have found otherwise. I particularly liked the street next to St. Severin’s which was filled with quaint cafes and shops. The same vibe flowed into the St. Michel area and I found myself feeling a mild hum of euphoria over the aching of my feet as I walked down cobblestone streets with people of different nationalities and reading signs in foreign languages. This was a foreign country in a way that Britain wasn’t. It was more foreign than foreign.

I walked past Sainte-Chapelle, a church with marvelous stained glass windows. Next there was the Palais de Justice, a quant park grove called Place Dauphine, and a park at the point of the island called Pont Neuf. I walked back to Place St. Michel and bought a falafel even if my French sucks. (My apologies to my two college TAs. I should have paid more attention.) I went back to the little island behind the bigger island Notre Dame is on and had some Berthillon ice cream. I had another 45 minutes to kill before the Seine boat site-seeing cruise I’d bought a ticket for, so I ordered a hot chocolate at a cafe and the waiter sat me in a table with this view.

Not too shabby.

Then it was on to the twilight cruise, which was beautiful but cold because both Paris and London have required a sweater I did not pack in my carry-on. Like at Notre Dame, my stomach felt a little weird as I saw a luxury cruise boat full of people eating dinner sail by a row of tents on the pier which I assume are for homeless people. Then we circled by the Eiffel Tower which was alight and towering like its name.

Finally I walked home to the Metro and back to the hotel feeling like I’d seen Paris, not all of it but enough. If I only had one day, this one would suffice, anxiety and unexpected disasters included.

Then I let my computer run all night and uploaded a bazillion travel photos to Flickr, no doubt annoying anyone else trying to use the network. Enjoy! I should warn you that these journal entries are being posted one day after everything that happened, so don’t be confused when you see pictures of Versailles in my stream and wonder why I never mentioned the hall or mirrors. There will be more photos to come now that I can charge my battery.

I was crammed up against an Indian man in a business suit and trying not to bump my nose on the hardback novel a woman next to me was reading when I came up with a piece of advice none of the guidebooks mentioned: Do NOT ride the tube at 9:15 in the morning if you can help it.

After my fellow sardines and I arrived at Hyde Park Station, I took a look at the Wellington Arch and Aspley House and then walked towards Harrods. The perfumes, clothes and jewelry were of no interest to me. Instead, I headed straight for the food hall aka the Dionysian feast of abundance

They have practically anything and everything you could ever want to eat and never knew you wanted to, like ostrich eggs.

I got some mint chocolate gelato, and then had to vacate the premises to eat it. I’m not sure if this is because Harrods didn’t want me getting their floors sticky, or if it’s because in Britain they charge you a smidge more if you dine in rather than carry out. They gave me a teeny-tiny plastic spoon, which you could use to feed a guinea pig. I thought it was comical at first, but then found it be practical for making me eat slower. I found some chairs outside a Mexican restaurant and finished most of it before the owner came out and heavily implied I should leave. I went across the street to a Pret a Manger which is a popular chain selling fresh, ready-made meals. There appears to be a Pret a Manger on every street corner, and while they all claim to have free wi-fi, this location’s wi-fi actually worked at a tolerable speed, so I checked up on some emails and confirmed my lunch date that evening.

I hadn’t visited any museums in London yet, unless you count the Tower of London, and most of them are free, so I checked out the Victoria & Albert Museum which I loved, loved, loved. The thought of museums does not typically tickle my willy, but the V&A displays clothing, silverware, jewelry, stained glass and more, items I find interesting to gaze at. The museum is small enough that I didn’t feel like I’d left half of it unexplored, but it’s also large enough that I didn’t see everything. The jewelry was displayed in a black room so the necklaces, rings, and bracelets sparkled brilliantly against the background. The silver wing was so shiny I felt blinded. The oddest exhibit by far was a recreation of Kylie Minogue’s dressing room.

For lunch I ate a Cornish pasty which is like a Hot Pocket except it tastes good. It fueled me for the guided walk of Kensington led by London Walks. This turned into the “places where dead writers used to live” tour. We saw the houses of Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot and Virginia Woolf. These are easily found because they put blue plaques on houses where famous people lived. I saw down on a wall to rest when the tour guide said, “This wall is getting it’s own blue plaque soon because Sylvia Plath and her husband used to write here.” My butt has been where Sylvia Path’s butt has been!

We headed towards Kensington Palace when our guide got serious for a moment. “Do NOT point your cameras at the Israeli embassy. You are not allowed to photograph it and the two men with automatic weapons at the front door will confiscate your camera and never give it back.” I shoved my camera deep into my purse and didn’t take it out again until we were out of sight of the embassy.

I feet hurt by the end of the two-hour tour, so I took the tube to Bea’s at Bloomsbury where you can get afternoon tea for only 5 or 8 pounds. Afternoon tea or high tea is a fancy pancy British name for the occasion of stuffing your face with pastries in the afternoon and washing them down with tea. My treats were served on a cute double-decker cookie platter. I had meringues, brownies, scones with cream and jam, and a chocolate cupcake. I would show you a picture of this sinful platter, but my camera battery chose that moment to lose all electrical charge. This is also why I cannot show you a picture of the street sign that said “Humps.” (It means speedbumps.)

I dropped to the floor of my hostel room because my back HURT. My lower back does not approve of my new habit of carrying a bag around town all day. I lied on the floor for 15 minutes, but had to rollover and get up because I could not do a sit-up to save my life. Then I was off again, across the Millennium Bridge to Wagamama, a Japanese restaurant, where I had dinner with Kristin and her husband who are friends from Indianapolis. Oddly enough, our schedules overlapped, and it was nice to see an American who could explain to me that yes, London does not serve traditional brewed coffee. The closest you can get to that is an Americano. This makes me infer that Mr. Coffee does not do a lot of business in London since they only use Cappuccino or Espresso machines.

They walked me back over the Thames to the hostel and I commented on how narrow the Thames is. It’s a good size river and could easily kill me if I fell in it, but I lived in Louisville, Kentucky for 8 years and the Thames ain’t got nothing on the Ohio River. Compared to the Mississippi, it’s just a crick. When I reached my hostel I was ready to take my shoes off, which were binding my hot, damp feet. I crawled into bed knowing I’d seen what I’d really wanted to see. When I woke up the next morning, I thought London, you are lovely, but I think it’s time we started seeing other cities. I hear Paris looks lovely today. I’ll go check it out.

Instead, I grabbed some grub in the hostel kitchen where the oatmeal was surprisingly delicious. I was expecting it to be crap, but it was a figgy, raisin-y bowl of goodness. Last night I heard two men in the hostel common room talking about how prices go up the closer you get to the river. This point was proven when it started to drizzle as I left the building and discovered that the umbrellas near St. Pail’s cost 16 pounds and the ones near Leicester Square were only 6 pounds. I spent 0 pounds because I brought my hat. That’s why I call it a smart hat.

I slowly circled in on the TKTS booth in Leicester Square solely to see more of the city and not because I was lost. The booth starts selling half-priced tickets to West End shows at 10am, so I appeared at 8:50am expecting a line of hardcore theatre fiends camped on the sidewalk, but instead was presented with this.

Nada. No one. They didn’t even have the list of shows available up on the board yet. This shocked me, probably because I’ve seeg the line in Times Square for half-priced New York theatre tickets. Since I had an hour to kill, I explored the neighborhood, strolling through Picadilly Circus where there is a fountain and a huge LED billboard, down to Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, and back to where I began. And still, at 9:20am there were only 3 people hanging around the booth, including me. I got in line behind another man, who then left, making me the first person in line!

Ok, it was a rather short line, but I was the head of it.

I had been hoping to get tickets to We Will Rock You, a musical featuring the music of Queen, but no tickets were available. Instead I purchased tickets for Spring Awakening because it had won lots of awards and because I liked the way the guy struck a pose on the subway poster ad.

I climbed down into the Underground again and was whisked off to St. Pancras station so I could visit the British Library. In one little room they have the Magna Carter, some of DaVinici notebooks, musical scores by Hayden and Mendelssohn, The Gutenberg Bible, and lyrics written by the Beatles. As I was looking at Ravel’s score for Bolero, I overheard a man next to me talking expertly about the history of the piece and all the gossipy details about the composer. I shadowed them down the rest of the music section and learned that Hayden was a good business man and Mendelssohn was kinda homey and didn’t like to perform in public. I think it was Mendelssohn. This was a library after all and I couldn’t hear all of the soft speech he was giving. I don’t know why I didn’t just go up to them and say, “Hey, can I tag along?” but it didn’t occur to me at the time. I’m probably spelling Mendelssohn wrong too, and someone will no doubt snootily correct me in the comments, but I don’t have enough wi-fi minutes to look it up and check. I’m also typing on a cramped keyboard where I accidentally hit the wrong buttons and keep zooming out of my document to 33% by doing something unknown to the touchpad.

My feet were starting to hurt and my stomach was starting to grumble, so I stopped into a pub across the street and ordered a coffee and a tuna and sweetcorn jacket even though I didn’t know what a jacket was. They could have served me tuna and corn on a windbreaker and I would have thought it was a local custom. Instead I learned a jacket is a potato scored into four pieces and opened slightly with the garnish on top. I was also subjected to the most awful cover of Bob Segar’s “We’ve Got Tonight” while eating it. It may in fact be the worst cover of any song I’ve ever heard.

I fled the pub and took the tube to Covent Market, which was AWESOME. I didn’t have this on my original itinerary, but I’m glad I dropped in. Covent Market is a collection of outdoor shops contained under the same roof. They are organized in 4 or 5 rows, with some of the rows being more posh than others. (Oh look, I said “posh.” I am becoming British already.)

Some vendors have roll-away stalls, and all around there are street performers juggling and singing. There is just about something for everyone, including sweet, delicious cupcakes.

I finished a delectable double-chocolate cupcake with a marshmallow bunny topper on the way back to Leicester Square to meet Courtney, author of The Weight Loss Diaries and a quite fun, friendly and generous gal. She showed me around Chinatown where they have skinned ducks in the window, and she reminded me to get a shot standing in a red British phone booth.

Then we strolled down Bond Street, which has lots of posh shops. (Posh! I did it again!) Then we were walking down Oxford Street and ducked into Selfridges department store to descend into their dungeon of delicious goods. Oh. My. God. Department stores in London have food halls in the basement. This one was a grocery store, bakery, deli, and butcher rolled into one. I wanted to eat my way out of there, stuffing cupcakes and sushi in my face, but I restrained myself since I was still full, which is the only reason I didn’t go to the hot chocolate bar.

Courtney had an appointment, so we parted ways and I headed toward the Marble Arch at Hyde Park, intending to jump on the tube station there. However, since I was all the way out there, I decided to pop into Hyde Park for a bit. A map on a sign near the corner drew a circle radius around part of the park, stating that everything within it was only a maximum 5 minute walk away.

Let me warn you, the map is a LIE.

The Princess Diana Memorial is just across from the lake. I’ll jaunt over since it’s just 5 minutes. And this is how I found myself wondering around the somewhat unremarkable, cold, and endless fields of Hyde Park, walking and walking and walking and thinking, “Isn’t there supposed to be a fucking lake around here somewhere?” Eventually I happened upon a house, which I believe was the groundskeeper’s building. And onward I walked, my feet aching. Eventually I found a big rock from Norway.

Finally, finally, FINALLY, I crossed a bridge over the lake and found the Princess Diana Memorial, which would have to have been flowing chocolate to be worth the trek. It was not flowing chocolate. Then I trekked onward, farther and farther, seeking a tube station where I could rest my feet. I have never in my life been so grateful to see a subway entrance as I was that afternoon in front of Knightsbridge station.

Then I was back at the hostel, checking e-mail, writing blogs, and then off again to see Spring Awakening where I learned that not only do London theatres let people drink wine and eat popcorn during show, but they also sell Haagen-Daas ice cream during intermission.

I know. Let’s all get a flat there and move in together.

I was at the Novello Theatre which is laid out rather oddly. If you enter on the ground floor of the building and go straight ahead into the first doors you see, you’ll find yourself on the second balcony. To get to the “stalls” or the orchestra floor as we Americans call it, you had to go down three flights of stairs. Then I tried exiting through another door during intermission and found myself in an entirely different stairwell. An usher then pointed me through a tiny door I had to duck my head to enter, which led down a short, narrow passage to another door which opened into the lobby. I felt like Alice in Wonderland walking through secret passages.

The show was pretty good, but it didn’t resonate with me on an emotional level. I don’t feel an urge to go out and buy the soundtrack like I have with other shows. I was in the fourth row center, which was so close I could see all the spittle flying out of the actors mouths as they sang. There was a lot of spittle. I might have needed an umbrella after all. There was also…partial nudity. I saw nipple! It made me uncomfortable.

After the show I walked halfway across the Waterloo Bridge as Courtney had recommended. The city was lit up from the London Eye Ferris Wheel to Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. This is London and those buildings are real and I am here. Then I hopped a bus back to the hostel, which was far more direct than the tube route I’d taken earlier. I rode on the top and zoomed through the streets because London was mine.

I was assigned the top bed, assuring I get a workout not only by walking all around town, but also by simply going to bed. I took off my socks to get better traction on the bed’s siderails and climbed down without waking anyone up. I am an acrobat! I suspect this maneuver is included in a typical Cirque Soleil audition.

I’d carefully laid out all my clothes and a baggy of my pills the night before, so I was able to quickly change clothes and walk across the Millennium Bridge at eight o’clock in the morning with hundreds of other Londoners on their way to work. I was amazed we were not all blown off the bridge and into the Thames. If I’d known it would be this windy, I would have brought a fleece, but I am managing with my windbreaker.

I strolled through Borough Market, which was closed, but that was probably good for my wallet. I peaked into several stalls, but only 2 or 3 were open. The market is most active on the weekends, a time I will not be there, so I was left to imagine what it must be like when it’s bustling and people are buying organic fruits and being robbed.

I popped into a little deli called Little Dorritt for a coffee and a sandwich and had a cultural experience. I know the woman behind the counter was speaking English, but if my life were a movie I would have turned the subtitles on. She seemed amused by me because her mouth turned up slightly in a grin after I’d replied, “Yeah” two times to her questions in a very American “accent.” Then she continued speaking like Charlie Brown’s teacher while pulling out a loaf of bread and looking at me questioningly. “Yeah, white,” I told her even though I would have preferred a wheat bread but didn’t think we could cross that communication barrier. What if they don’t even call it wheat bread here? Then she asked if I wanted it for “take away” instead of “carry out” as we Americans do, after which she put in on a paper plate and THEN put it in a bag and I left while drinking my coffee, which was quite good! I also learned that I love having cucumber on my sandwich! It added crunchy delight to my day.

I continued people-watching while walking and eating because I am a master multi-tasker. I followed the hoards across London Bridge, finished my coffee and walked and walked and walked and COULD NOT FIND A GARBAGE CAN. In desperation I started thinking to myself I will even call it a damn rubbish bin, but could I please, please, please find a receptacle for my empty paper cup? I got all the way to the Tower of London before my chant was answered. Later on, London resident and blog reader Katherine told me over lunch that they got rid of all the trash cans because the IRA used to put bombs in them. I can’t say that I blame them.

The Tower of London was much more interesting than I thought an old castle would be. I took the guidebook’s advice and headed straight for the crown jewels and happily skipped through rows and rows of line barriers with no people lining them. It was like an empty ride at Disneyland. I only stopped to watch video of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation video and view other education things before drooling over the bling. My favorite item was the royal punch bowl. I do not kid. There is a huge vat used for serving wine at parties.

After looking at the shiny things, a yeoman, aka a Beefeater (as they’re nicknamed), led us through a tour and then I climbed lots of stairs in the white tower at the center of the edifice. The most interesting part of the Henry VIII exhibit there was that they included his measurements as he aged and gained weight over the years. You can’t really make adjustments to a suit of armor, so Henry had is skinny armor and his fat armor. I don’t think he kept them in a box in the closet like where I hide me fat clothes and skinny clothes.

I then walked to the Cinnamon Kitchen, a modern Indian restaurant where the waiters speak…French? That’s what the accent sounded like to me. I didn’t get lost either, which was amazing because I find London difficult to navigate. The streets are windy and they don’t have poles on every corner with street names like we have in America. Instead, the street names are bolted on the outer walls of the buildings, but there is not always a sign at every corner, leading me to get turned around like a spinning top.

Cinnamon Kitchen was a recommendation from Katherine, a blog reader originally from Australia and now living in London. It was fun to talk to someone over lunch. Thanks for the invite, Katherine! I know some of you also left invites in my original London and Paris thread, and I apologize for never responding to you. It’s been rather crazy scheduling things in and people really started crawling out of the woodwork in London. I didn’t know so many of you lived there!

After dinner, I got overconfident on the tube and took the wrong line on the way to Westminster Abbey, delaying my arrival by 10-15 minutes. I slipped in 70 minutes before closing, which was 10 minutes before they stop people from entering. I felt a bit rushed, but the audio tour and my Rick Steves guide were excellent and I felt like I got to see everything, including choir boys playing basketball behind a wrought iron gate by one of the gardens. Westminster Abbey is so amazingly detailed it is impossible to take it all in, but I did what I could. The odd thing about Westminster is that you’ll be wondering around and then someone will point out that you just walked over Charles Darwin’s grave. I traipsed over a lot of dead people without realizing it.

The abbey closed at 4:30, but I got back in for free at 5:00 for the evensong service. Do you hear that thud? That is the sound of my mother falling off her chair at the thought of me attending a church service of my own free will. I had a crappy seat near the back where I could not see the choir boys, but I could see the bust of William Blake giving me the stinkeye through the whole service. I would have taken a photo, but photography is not allowed in the abbey. I thought of sneaking a photo, but didn’t out of respect to the church and because an altar boy was watching us the whole time.

Then I stopped by the Parliament building and visited the Stranger’s Gallery (no the guest’s gallery) at the House of Lords, where they were talking about a fishing bill, which is just as boring as it sounds. The building itself was ornate and lovely, a contrast to Westminster Hall which you walk through to get there which is very simple and old.

I was pretty tired by then, so I headed back to the hostel, this time using the correct train. I had dinner at a Pizza Express, only because Indianapolis has a Pizza Express chain and I wanted to compare these two twins. Indy’s Pizza Express wins hands down. This place was sort of fancy, with thin crust pizzas. If I’m eating pizza, I prefer a casual dining experience with lots of grease and cheese.

I chilled out in the hostel’s common room at the end of the day to write my blog, when I discovered I’d timed my vacation perfectly. Eurovision is on! For those of you not in the know, Eurovision is song-writing competition between 40-something European countries. It attracts the most bizarre, overly theatrical acts, frequently clothed in spandex and glitter. This is why it is awesome. The semi-finals did not let me down. There was a bizarre group from the Czech Republic dressed like comic book characters. The lead singer was even wearing a cape. Another country had two performers on stilts dancing across the stage, and then the man on stilts grabbed the woman on stilts “feet” and twirled her around in a death spiral. There were also some genuinely talented acts. Right now I’m rooting for Iceland, which entered a 17-year-old singer who’s got real skillz. Go Iceland!

BTW, I haven’t had time to read the comments on any of my travel entries, and probably won’t until I get home. So if you have asked and questions or made any recommendations, I’m not going to get back to you anytime soon. Nothing personal. I’m on vacation, which includes a vacation from my inbox.

I thought only bums fell asleep on public buses, but evidently jetlagged Americans do too. At 11:00am London time, 6:00am PastaQueen time, and after 22 hours of consciousness, my body finally screamed, “SLEEP!” as loudly as the bus driver was honking at the gridlock on Trafalgar Square. I had moved to the bottom of the hop-on-hop-off bus tour because the top was too cold and windy, but the combination of warmth and stillness made me lean against the window over my bag and enter a state of not quite sleeping, but not quite awake.

Realizing it would be very bad to fall asleep on a bus in a foreign country, I jumped off at the next stop, Buckingham Palace, and discovered the proper treatment for jetlag is lots and lots and lots of walking. I’d started the day by buying my bus ticket and hopping on outside St. Paul’s Cathedral. We drove across London Bridge and Tower Bridge and past lots of landmarks, but after hitting the snag at Trafalgar Square I got off and never got back on. This was either because the guide didn’t impress me much or my brain was too sleep-deprived to follow what he was saying. At least no one had BO, which cannot be said of my train ride into the city which was otherwise quite lovely. British houses have such cute chimneys! Lots and lots of chimneys. On my ride in from the airport I was hit with international wonder. The people on this train have British accents! The cars are driving on the wrong side of the street! They have funny license plates! It’s just like I’ve seen on TV and the movies! Only I’m here! For real!

After hopping off the tour bus, I walked from Buckingham Palace through St. James Park and then past Big Ben and Sri Lankan protesters. All of that was in the guidebook except for the protesters, who were sitting in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. I suspect they might have had something to do with the gridlock at Trafalgar Square. The best thing about walking in London is not the random protrester, but the nifty crosswalk buttons. When you hit the button to trigger the walk sign, it lights up and says “Wait” so you know it actually worked! In the states there is just a button which you compulsively press over and over again like an elevator button, never sure if your message is getting through.

I walked down Westminster Pier and got on a City Cruises boat that was included in my bus ticket. The boat guide was funny and informative, much better than the bus guide, which made me grateful enough to tip him a pound on the way off the boat. Of course, the bad thing about the exchange rate is that it makes it seem like I’m spending less money than I am. When I paid 27.50 pounds for my train pass, I thought, “Oh, 27.5 units of currency is not that much,” when really it’s about 40 dollars of my native currency, which is harder for my money-conscious mind to take.

The boat docked at Greenwich where I ate fish and chips and saw loads of cute little British school kids running around in their British school uniforms speaking in their British accents. Then I walked up this hill to the Royal British Observatory.

Yes, I actually climbed that Big Fucking Hill. Why they made it a ramp, I don’t know. It was steep enough to justify stairs, felt like I was climbing stairs and would have been a death ramp for anyone in a wheelchair who would have one hell of a ride before they faceplanted into a lovely green British lawn. As if to taunt me, they added 4 stairs at the end as if to say, “Yes, we could have made these stairs, but we chose not to. Ha!” However, the view was amazing.

I also straddled the prime meridian, placing myself in the eastern and western hemispheres at the same time. I love getting the touristy shots. It’s more fun than PhotoShop.

Then I decided I was sick of Greenwich and sick of my purse making my back ache and I headed back for the boat which sailed back to London, again with my head down in a state of half-consciousness. I took the tube back to my hostel, which is rather nice even if it is within earshot of ringing church bells every hour on the hour. The girls coming back in at 4:30am speaking French bothered me more. I turned in at 10pm after doing a bit of reading about the places I planned to visit on Tuesday, finally escaping into sweet, sweet sleep. I’d never crossed this many time zones at once before, and in college I never, ever pulled an all-nighter. I always reached a point where I figured I was doing more harm than good and would go to asleep already. This might have been the longest period of continuous consciousness I have ever experienced, and I’m not crazy about doing it again.

I wish I were able to upload all my photos to Flickr as I’d planned, but free wi-fi is hard to find and the free connections I have found are abysmally slow. I bought an hour of time at my hostel, which I’m using to quickly check email and post blogs, but I don’t have time to upload 500 megabytes of photos. My hotel in Paris is supposed to have free wi-fi, so perhaps I can catch up then. Until then, I leave you with this, a picture of my fish and chips!

After lunch, SassyDemon walked me to the Blue line stop and after my luggage handle got stuck in the turnstile and then pried out, I got on my train with two and half hours until my plane’s departure.

Then there was the shuttle.

You see, construction work was being done on the blue line on Sunday, which meant four stops were closed. Shut down. Not open. And since trains like to travel in straight lines on tracks and not willy nilly on the roads, the train stopped and we were guided to the surface for a special shuttle bus that would take us to the next stop.

It took 45 minutes. I’d estimated the entire train ride would take only 30 minutes.

I have paranoid traveler’s syndrome. I’ve been stricken with it from my youth. Symptoms include nausea, muscle tension and anxiety when I do not arrive at the airport two hours before my departure time. As our bus waited in a traffic jam I murmured to myself, “It will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine.” As the bus kept going and going and going without me knowing how close to the station we were, I told myself that this was why I allow two hours to get to the airport. That way when I am freaking out on a shuttle bus in Chicago traffic I am only doing it because of my paranoid traveler’s syndrome and not because I’m actually going to miss my flight.

A short jaunt and two flights of stairs later, I had gotten a good weight-lifting workout with my suitcase and I was on the train platform. We zoomed into O’Hare airport with an hour an ten minutes until my flight’s departure time. International travelers have to check in at least 40 minutes before hand. This is another stimulus that provokes paranoid traveler’s syndrome, especially when you try checking in at a terminal that tells you it doesn’t check in international flights and you only have 30 minutes to find the right one and complete the task. Normally, I check in online beforehand, but my Internet was still on the fritz this morning and my printer had finally had a psychotic break, spewing gibberish and playing card suits, when I’d tried printing my itinerary for my mom.

Another flight of stairs later I found the right terminal and after I figured out how to swipe my passport I was onto security, where I was pulled aside and they stole my almond butter that I’d bought for DietGirl. Sorry, Shauna! Let it be known that flight security has kept us all safe from the terror of a creamy almond spread. I can still remember the way the screener shook her head as she found the jars, as if to say “These kids with their exotic condiment spreads.” I bet those screeners are munching on almond-y toast and having a good laugh right now. In retrospect, I should have foreseen that I would never get a buttery, gooey concoction through security, but I thought I would give it a shot. I should have also checked the Chicago Transit Authority’s web site and learned about the work on the blue line, but with a zillion details to remember and 5 guidebooks read, I never thought to check the subway schedule of a metro system outside of London or Paris.

As I waited at the gate to board the plane, I played a game of Spot the Brit. I randomly assigned stranger’s British citizenship as if their haircuts or jackets were speaking to me in a cockney accent. I boarded my flight with no trouble, except for the fact that my seat was in the dead middle of the row, which is what you get for checking in late. I probably shouldn’t use the word “dead” when referring to air flight either. The last time I was on a 777 with 9 seats across I was about 9 years old and flying to Disney World. This was back when they let people meet you at the gate. They probably let you travel with almond butter too.

There were little TV monitors on the back of every chair with several movie selections and a fancy map that showed where our plane was at the moment, as well as the airspeed and the temperature outside the cabin: -60 degrees Fahrenheit. Nobody open a window! The complimentary blankets won’t save us from the chill, or the suction. The map was rather addictive and without it I wouldn’t have known how close to Newfoundland we flew. I also wouldn’t have known when we were flying over a huge mass of water with no land in sight.

I selected the movie “Taken” from the selections, which is a film about two girls traveling alone to Paris who are kidnapped and sold into sex slavery by a cute boy they met at the airport. I didn’t think there was anything that could make Paul Blart: Mall Cop look like a good selection, but that plot point did. Mental note: Do not share a cab with any cute guys at the Paris train station!

The flight attendants were really ace, handing out snacks and sodas and chicken meals with tasty oatmeal brownies quickly and efficiently. As I sat with the pillow behind my lower back, a father lifted up his ginger-haired baby up long enough for her to grin and wave at the rest of coach before bringing her back down. Her body popped up again a moment later, like the creatures in the Whack-a-Mole game, but far cuter and adorable. It was the cutest thing ever.

At customs, the agent commented on my picture and said I’d lost “a fair amount of weight.” Then he asked if I was travelling alone and my paranoid traveler’s syndrome kicked in again, as if the customs agent was going to follow me to my hotel and sell me into an Albanian prostitution ring.

I tried to sleep on the plane but only dozed off for 30 minutes. Now I shall try to stay awake for the rest of the day to sync my body with local time. I’ll have to drink lots of tea, I suppose. It is sunny and brisk here in London. It’s just like America, but different! Now I’m off to hop on and hop off a big red bus.