I have so many things to say, but I have forgotten them, or am too lazy to present them as good stories. My pictures are in another forum, so if you know me, you can look there. But one thing I do want to talk about here is summer sales in Paris! This whole entry revolved around them, so skip if you’re not so interested in the subject.

Shops in Paris only have sales twice a year – in July and in January. They correlate with the end of seasons, and the sales are phenomenal. They are a huge deal – so much so, that the government dictates when they are going to be, and that’s the only time they are allowed to happen. This year they started on June 25th at 8am, and will go until August 3rd I believe – 6 weeks. I hit the first wave, when things are only discounted around 40-50% (at the end of the season, what little is left is slashed to 75% off)!

Instead of venturing out on the 25th, which is the Parisian equivalent of black Friday (I got the 26th off as my one REAL day off), I window shopped late that night, and ended up shopping the next day. First we explored two giant department stores, which housed great designers like Chanel, D&G, Chloe, and every other high end designer you can think of. Almost everything was 40-50% off. I tried on a couple things, but with prices being 4000 Euro and up, it was a little silly for me even to be looking. I did try on one bodysuit that looked like a tube top that I really liked the cut of, but the color didn’t match my skin tone at all – plus it was 200 Euro and I’m not sure if it was on sale. Shopping was draining! After perusing the designer sections, the other floors, which were nice, just couldn’t compare. Dior and Gucci make everything else look like WalMart purchases in comparison (the fabrics, the cut, the stitching – swoon!), but I can’t afford the nice stuff!

After going in to the department stores and seeing nothing more interesting than women fighting over 300 dollar shoes, we decided to stop and put some food in our tummies. We had the most delicious crepes I’ve ever had. We had one with Nutella and one with Caramel in this cute little place that had a second floor overlooking the street – perfect! After eating, we had enough strength to rejoin the fight for high fashion.

This time, we tried the boutiques. We walked along Saint-Honore, the most high priced, exquisite shopping that Paris has to offer. After popping into a few little stores and realizing that we couldn’t pay 500 Euro for a tank top (that was the half off price!), we were a little disheartened, but enjoying ourselves.

We walked past a store we had scoped the night before that had a turquoise ball gown in the window that was tres, tres magnifique. We decided we had to go in and see how much it was – because the night before we had been seriously lusting over it. It was only 7000 Euro. Once inside the store, we found that every piece in there was perfection. Most things were originals, with nothing being offered in different sizes (as is expected for Saint-Honore shops), and everything was drool worthy. We wandered into the upstairs portion where a few ready to wear pieces were offered, included more 3000 Euro shirts and skirts. We drooled over a shorter, poofier, more casual version of the dress downstairs (it didn’t have 2000 Euro worth of jewels stitched in, but instead could be worn to a mildly fancy event), as well as a long, black, draped gorgeous creation that was to die for. I convinced my friend that we had to try them on. The black dress had to be modeled, it couldn’t just hang limp and sad on a hanger – It was too pretty! Plus, there was no price, so I couldn’t be too sad when my body just wouldn’t work with it.

Now, typically, I won’t try anything on that I don’t have money in my bank account to pay for, just in case something goes terribly wrong (like a giant ripping sound as I pull it over my head), but since my bank account is nearly none, that would limit my choices to nothing more than socks, so I decided to go for it (8000 euro is the same as 800 when you have nothing). We asked for a dressing room, disrobed, and I slipped into the most luscious of fabrics. Silky, soft, smooth – perfection. And it fit like a glove (but not an ill-fitting glove, like one made from a mold of my hand)! It accentuated every curve, made my waist look magnificent, and glided over my bum and hips in the perfect way – not like cotton which lumps out when faced with my hips. I felt like I was going to a royal ball. That was my most perfect moment in Paris. High fashion in the best way.

My friend looked over and gasped, oohed with delight, and reached for the camera. She looked delightful as well, but her dress ballooned out a little much, and was far too wide around the waist for her petite figure. I giggled and danced around for a few moments, enjoying the moment on pure love, and I decided that I had to be foolish and figure out how much it was – so I could save every penny I had for the next 15 years to come back and get it. I walked out into the store, but no one was to be seen. Our sales attendant had walked away, no doubt convinced that the two silly American girls wearing jeans would not be able to afford anything within his lovely store(although, he was right), and after telling us about the 40% off left us. I walked back in, deciding I should take it off, so when I did get the news it wouldn’t be as painful, but after slipping on my jeans, I needed to twirl around a few more times.

The sales attendant was there, and I asked him about the price. He said “let me check” as I waited patiently and admired myself a few more times (totally self-absorbed, I know, but the dress was so amazing!). He returned and quoted a price that was only about 1.3 times my allotted shopping budget, which I had so gracefully given myself! Although, this budget was supposed to be big enough that I could buy 3 very nice things, or two very, very nice things. But, as mentioned earlier, my bank account is small, and I was already partially shopping on anticipated money, so the difference between a little borrowed money, and a little more really isn’t that huge (awful – I reminded myself of confessions of a shopaholic). It took about 4 minutes of calculating numbers in my head, and I decided it was worth it. It wasn’t in the thousands like I had fully expected, and I had been in dire need of a dress for formal, formal events. It was done. I had to buy it.

As he was ringing me up, I was desperately praying that I hadn’t heard him incorrectly, or that he hadn’t made a mistake in telling me the numbers in English, reducing by a factor of ten or something (100 and 1000 are hugely different). I stared at the slip he handed me to sign, and was baffled. It wasn’t what he had quoted me, IT WAS 40% LESS! He had told me the pre-sale price, not the discounted one! I took 6 deep breaths, turned to my friend and asked “this can’t possibly be right??” (she had been holding her breath with me, convinced that we were both completely wrong about this purchase price) – but she nodded silently with huge eyes, “YES!”. It was not only within my budget, it was well within (leaving 25% for accessories)!

The moment we walked out the store, and turned the corner (because this couldn’t be in site of the smug sales attendant, who acted like he was doing us a huge favor by letting me purchase this), we squealed delightedly. For ten minutes! I felt like I had just gotten away with robbing a bank or something. I felt the need to make a quick get-away. I still am going to be checking my bank statement as soon as it appears to make sure I am not dreaming. It was too perfect.
When we returned to the apartment I had a fashion show for all to see, and jaws dropped to the floor when they saw it.

I am seriously dreaming. I don’t even know how I came to own this magnificent dress. Pinch me!
So this all-too-long entry can be summed in one sentence – “Sales in Paris are the most beautiful thing in the entire world.”

So, I am on the plane again. Two hours in to an 8 hour flight. Whoo hoo! The airport proceedings were a little obnoxious because J. set off the metal detector and had to be searched, and then they found a large bottle of balsamic vinegar she had packed in her carry on (what??), and she was ticked because they had to take it away, despite her protestations that it was expensive, and sealed.

Some people not only think the rules don’t apply to their kids (who are the center of the universe), but also think that because they’re American, White, middle aged, and a single mom, that they should be exempt from the same security procedures as others. :p Sorry, that was a bit whiny, but I met other people on this trip who would vocalize that they didn’t think that R. is the center of the universe and shouldn’t be the one constantly deciding everyone’s schedules. It really, really, ticked off J., who obviously thinks otherwise, and I had to try to talk her down, but really – I agree a lot of the time!

Being part of another person’s family for a two week trip abroad is certainly interesting. I really really liked a certain, young member of the family who joined us – we went shopping, exploring, we sat at a bar and people watched, and we got along very well.

But there are still little traditions which are so weird within families, and I wonder if they even realize it (S.’s family makes animal noises every time they go through a tunnel, and he didn’t realize that everyone didn’t do such until fairly late in life). This family is Jewish. Very much so in some ways (they all say “oy gavault (sp)!” and have the same expressive way of doing things, and not so much in others (some of them eat ham, they don’t like hockey).

But another thing this family does, which I find very weird, but don’t connect with any particular group of people is kiss each other on the lips. I come from a family that is not at all affectionate, either verbally, or physically. In a couple self-reflective psych papers I’ve had to analyze this, but I’m not going to do that here. I like families who are verbally affectionate and supportive, I wish my family was more so, but very affectionate families freak me out a little. Not in the way where I see and father and daughter holding hands and think it’s inappropriate, kissing on the lips is weird for me. Also, this family was almost constantly holding hands – daughter and father, daughter and grandparents, sisters – it was just so foreign to my way of thinking. I know it tend to be a European thing, but they’re not European! Anyway. My lips are for S. only. When R. tries to kiss me on my mouth, I promptly present my cheek. I don’t even kiss my own family on the cheek! Anyway… .rambling.

I have never been forced to appreciate art from an academic standpoint. I haven’t had to take any classes to comment on “the way the light hits the tree” and write 6 page papers on it. I didn’t go to elementary school where kids have to take art classes and learn to paint properly. I suffered through art in middle school, managing to eke out one pathetic looking sleeping cat that was the motif through which I acquired passing grades. My parents did not appreciate art, and as a result, my love for it did not blossom. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the arts, for music was a huge part of my life – but visual arts was not.

In high school I took some photography classes. And in college I worked my way into some photo classes that I wasn’t techinically allowed to be in (only visual arts majors were allowed to enroll), and my professor almost always picked my photos as the top two in the line up for the week (think reality shows, where they give the rose, or token to the best person first). It wasn’t a paintbrush and easel, but it was art.

I have had the discussion with S. about how we are so bombarded with images in this culture, and things are so easily accessible that “art” in the old sense is much more difficult to appreciate and come by – not a lot is novel anymore. Even seeing the “great works” is a little anticlimactic, because the images are so easily accessed in books, online, often even showing up in advertising.

The reason I write about this now is because – I’m in Paris (obviously), and I have had the opportunity to run into a few museums with an anxious 8 year old and see some of these famous things in person. Monet, Degas, Manet, Van Gogh – I saw works from them all yesterday. I should be impressed. I should be wowed. But it was sort of like “oh, okay, it’s the real thing. not that different from the recreations.” I didn’t appreciate them as I thought I should. So I guess this post is a little about guilt from not being wowed, but leading into some thoughts I had on taste in general.

I like patterns. I like order. I like things to be in their places. J. and I were having a discussion about art this morning (she still has the wow feeling, I haven’t been able to tell her I’m bored – it would truly change her view of me). She said that she was reading a book last night that said that art should make you appreciate the beauty in every day life. That seeing a beautiful table in a palace shouldn’t cause you to ache for an aristocratic life, but instead cause you to see what a table “could be” and see the beauty in your own life. I see beauty in simplicity. I see beauty in mystery. I see beauty in what could be.

J. is the type who will pick out a table cloth with 6 bright shade of yellow and orange with bright colored flowers all over it. She sees beauty in something that simply makes me want to vomit. After a small amount of thought, I think I appreciate art most when it falls into one of the following three categories: patterns, people, and adventure.

I love patterns. Simple, complex, patterns with light, but NOT patterns overwhelmed with color, or ones that don’t have order. There is a painting in J’s room that I adore. It is this :

It is too chaotic! It makes me feel ucky when I look at it! I just can’t explain it!

Anyway, I’ve been seeing lots of things I should be excited about, but I just can’t get myself to appreciate the beauty of it all. But I’ll also find myself staring up at the architecture and soaking in the wonder of it. Or I’ll find myself in a room full of photography and be amazed. Or looking at landscapes and think “I want to be there!” (instead of, oh.. this makes me better appreciate the beauty of my own small yard, without the glorious mountains and rivers and jungle…). So I according to J.’s view, I’m not appreciating it “right,” but I’m enjoying it in my own way just the same.

Wow. I can’t believe my time here is almost over!

I last left off on Notre Dame I believe…? Since then I’ve seen Sacre Coeur, and wandered endlessly around the streets of Paris, I’ve visited the Musee d’Orsay, seen the Eiffel Tower about a million more times, and have about 800 stories to tell – but none that would be really interesting if you weren’t there or at least knew all of the people involved, so they’ll be saved for another time and place.

I have been so busy that this short post has taken me 3 days to write. I will be much more bored in a week and a half when I am in a sleepy, rural town where everyone goes to sleep at 8pm. I will post more then – I just wanted to say that I am alive, and I have not forgotten to write. Maybe I’ll crank out a thorough recap on my 6 hour flight back on Friday. Maybe…

The last 3 days I have been doing lots and lots of walking.

R. walked to the Eiffel tower with me Sunday, Monday we visited the Jardin Des Tuileries, and today we visited Notre Dame! There has been lots of lovely sightseeing, and lots of walking (and complaining from the young one), and lots of missing my love as I see all these cute couples walking down the street (it really is EVERYWHERE!), and lots of staring at the beautiful fashions that walk by on the street.

I am usually a really great, patient kid person, but usually I’m in a place that I don’t care so much about, and I know I’m getting paid for it. My payment for being here is being here – so I want to enjoy it to the fullest, so R.’s complaining is starting to get me down, but I think the point is almost here where she’s realizing I’m simply not going to put up with it. I hope! She’s good when it’s just me, nut the moment any other person enters the pictures she tries to manipulate them to get out of the rules (mom will give her ice cream 4 times a day, and everything her little heart desires). Although J is starting to get exasperated as well. Before she left she said that her choice was very seriously check herself into a mental institute for a long “rest” or go through with this wonderful vacation. And I think she really meant it.

Oh! That reminds me. Parents. I don’t understand how parents (and grandparents) often think their children are the best things in the entire world and that they can do no wrong, and that everyone else should also think their children are God’s gift to the world. Ugh. I particularly think this tonight because I had to sit through 30 minutes of R plunking away on an out of tune piano in an awful way while her mother and grandparents sat there in adoration. All I could think was “Schedule! Bed time routine! The grocery will be closed by the time we get there! Shut up already!” It even got to a point where her grandparents were obviously done, but her mother sat there, absolutely enraptured. It was painful. Times like that make me miss having a friend here to make fun of things with. It a friend was here, we could go home and laugh about how horrible we really thought it was, and how we were lying through our teeth saying it was great.

J also has very questionable taste in what is beautiful. Yesterday we were walking down the street and she saw a blue flowered china plate in the window. She stopped and gazed at it and said “oh look, isn’t it SO beautiful?” I pretending to gently agree, although it was far too patterned, blue and over the top for my style. She then said “When you get married, I’ll buy it as a wedding present!” and inside I groaned, then laughed. I told her such a gift would be totally inappropriate for me, because I would break it in a minute, but what I really wanted to say was “J., you don’t know me at all, do you? I would certainly prefer more backpacking equipment, or a plane ticket somewhere exotic or even a weekend caving or some tech-y geeky equipment over this silly 2000 plate. Are you kidding?!?!” She often thinks things are so gorgeous and inside I groan and think “yuck, that’s hideous!” but instead pretend to agree, as to not insult her (because she would take it as an insult). Although, the other day she did say a jacket was beautiful and I said something like “j., do you want a young person’s opinion? It looks like something a 70 yr old woman would wear, insisting it’s still fashion. You are FAR TOO YOUNG for something like that.” I think she was only a little offended.

I miss my wonderfully sarcastic friends. I miss S., who will walk down the street with me insulting people’s outfits (quietly of course!). I miss having someone with a similar point of view on the world to take it all in with. It’s funny, I felt a little like this when I was in Eastern Europe too. Travel is most enjoyed in the company of like-minded, adventurous, wonderful people.

au revoir!

I have had a few interesting encounters with the French people and I can’t decide if I should write about them now, or if I should collect them all and just write about the best snippets.

I had the evening off, so I wandered around the city and “licked the windows” (as they say in French) of the fancy designer stores, indulged in a little piece of heaven at La Maison Du Chocolat, saw the Arc de Triomphe, hiked up the stairs of the Eiffel Tower (I didn’t go all the way to the top because the ticket booth to catch an elevator was closed and the machine wouldn’t take me card), and walked back through the streets of Paris. It was about a 10 mile walk, not including the 1000 or so stairs in the Eiffel.

I have decided that I do like this beautiful city. But it would be much more fun if I could do it all on my own schedule. And with S. And with money.

Okay, I guess I will devote a few minutes to interesting encounters.

The first is something that just sort of freaked me out – not an encounter at all. I was at the airport with a huge luggage cart, waiting for Janis to come back exchanging currency, when a women in full Muslim garb walked by me, ten paces behind her husband. The was wearing a black veil (no slit for her eyes or anything), she had on black gloves, black shoes, and was completely submissive. Her husband barked for her to wait somewhere for a minute with the stroller (she was pushing a little boy in western clothing), and she did without a sound. It reminded me very much of the bad guys in the Lord of the Rings. The ones that ride on horses. Or the death eaters from Harry and the Potters. Uck.

Last night I was walking back from the Hemmingway Bar in the Ritz around 1am, and despite my dear friend’s urgings to take a cab, I really wanted to walk through Paris at night. It was beautiful, so I’m glad I did, but as I was walking I was acutely aware of the warnings I had been given by friends about being an unfriendly city. I was walking down a well-lit street that wasn’t jammed-packed, but there were certainly other people on it, when I saw a guy leaning against the outside of a building. He smiled at me and flashed me a peace sign. France is a funny place where people think it’s okay to obviously look you up and down and “appreciate your beauty” – it’s not considered ogling or rude in any way. Well, I looked the other way and continued walking and this gentleman jumped in front of me and said “EEEHH! [lots of speaking in French the way a mother would gentle scold her children.]” I managed to blurt out the only sentence I know in French – “I don’t understand French” – and he laughed and said slowly “You are a beautiful woman.” I again said “I don’t understand” and shuffled off. I admit that when he jumped in front of me my hand grabbed for and wrapped around my keys in a way that would make them a good weapon. It was funny that he was just aggressively trying to hit on me.

There has been a significant police force in the city the last few days because George W. is here trying to win some favor in the eye of the world before he leaves office. Last night, shortly after I was approached by the above dude, I saw two police officers straddling the sidewalk, walking toward me. The one on my left had a giant kubotan, and the one on my right was holding a fairly large automatic rifle. I held my breath as I walked between them, although as I was doing it I realized that was probably more suspicious than walking calmly, but goodness, they freaked me out.

Okay, last one for today. On my adventures roaming the city today, I saw something shiny in the middle of the sidewalk, and a guy to my right swooped in front of me and picked it up (I had no intention of doing anything other than walking over it). He then tried to say something to me in French, presenting the object (what appeared to be a man’s wedding ring) to me. I again, recited my one mastered phrase “I don’t understand French” and he asked me “Eeeennnglish?” I said yes, and he grabbed onto my arm with one hand, put the ring in my other, kissed me on both cheeks and said it was a gift for me, a “magnificently beautiful woman.” I tried to refuse, but he absolutely would not let me. So I finally said “fine” just so he would let go, which worked. He then asked me something about coffee, which I also declined, then he tried to get me to give him money so HE could get some coffee! I was thinking this was a huge scam, so I tried to give back the ring and walk away, but again he grabbed my arm and gestured at my pocket. I pulled out ,70 euro (about a dollar), handed it to him, tried to give back the ring, and tried to get away. It didn’t work. He tried to get more money from me, gesturing that I must have more coins! I said it was for the Eiffel tower and tried to scoot away. He finally laughed and gave in, then went in for more cheek kisses, but at the last moment he turned and tried to kiss me on the lips! I turned my head faster than he could, and scooted out of there as quick as could be, as he waved goodbye to me – although the light hadn’t changed, so I stood uncomfortably there for a few seconds (there were people between us ). So, I got home and pulled out the ring, and it looks like it just might be real gold. It says “18k” on it, and it has the weight of gold. But it could just be a clever fake for his scam. Part of me hopes that it is a fake, because I wouldn’t want someone to have lost their wedding ring, but another part hopes it may be of some value to make up for that icky encounter. I could pay for part of an apartment deposit with it (I’m still a Global Nomad by the way). But why would he give it to me if it was worth something? He said “real gold” when he handed it to me. I didn’t see him plant it, and someone else would have picked it up before if he had put it there before me (he came from behind me). I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to bring it to a jeweler when I get back to the states and see if they laugh at me. J. thinks it may be real as well, so here’s hoping!

au revoir!

My mind has been changed.

There is nothing like escaping from responsibility, walking across the seine at night, meeting a wonderful friend at a fancy restaurant, sitting in the Ritz in Paris sipping $45 cocktails with a group of intelligent, interesting people who work in the White House and fly on Air Force One, then walking home to a beautiful scene of the Eiffel Tower and other magnificent buildings across the skyline.

My days will be laborious, but I think my two nights off a week will totally make up for it. Although, tonight I paid nothing. Thank you US taxpayers who pay government employees per diem for international travel :] (Although it was more my wonderful friend giving herself to eating less-wonderfully for the next week).

So… I’m here.

It has been 36+ hours since I’ve slept, I’ve spent 7 hours on a plane, plus about 3 more in other various travel, plus another 3 in airports. I have seen many wonderous things, and walked a LOT. Like, at least 7 miles. I have eaten lunch in a cute cafe (along with coffee de creme to make it through the day), made omelettes, seen 3 of J’s extended family members (who are also all here for the summer, with 2 more to come), and made it through about 20 full out tantrums, plus a full day of whining and complaining – now concluding with “I don’t want to sleep! I’m not tired!” – which of course, comes after falling asleep in the cab for an hour, and again on her mom’s lap in the cafe.

Now I am the one whining and complaining, because I can’t wait for her to fall asleep so I can lock myself in the kitchen and call S. without her hearing me, then go to BED (even though it is barely 8pm here. TIRED.

It’s interesting, when I first arrived, I was a little disappointed. Maybe it was the tired/crabby/no sleep thing, but Paris is much more like other European cities that I’ve visited than the grand disney-esque place I imagined it would be. It’s just another city. I’ve seen a lot of those lately. A city that I don’t have full rights to explore. I’m be teaching a morning lesson while other adults are seeing Picassos and other things better suited for adults. This is a vacation, yes, but not so much for me.

Although in the three weeks I’m here, I may have 4 or 5 nights to “go out.” I don’t know what that means, because I want to do a bit of thrift shopping, but everything closes at 7:30, so it’s not exactly nighttime. Similarly, adult type museum things will also be closed. Bummer. I also had wanted to do something like go see a show at the Moulin Rouge, but it’s $150 bucks! Totaly not worth it – at least not without S. I think that’s really what has me down. There are a lot of things I wish I could be doing in the city, but I can’t because of 16 hour work days and financial constraints, and even if I did have those things, S isn’t here to share all of it with, and I really want to experience things with him, because I know he’d love all of it, and I’ll probably come back and do them again with him, and I’d rather it be both of our first times…

Okay, I’ll quit being crabby. I’m sure I’ll have 800 more wonderful things to say tomorrow, once I’ve actually slept.

The last few weeks have been… exciting to say the least. I have successfully moved from Atlanta. Not really to anywhere, I’m homeless now – or as S. put it, a “citizen of the world.” It is a little bit frightening, but a lot exciting.

On the long, long drive from Atlanta to the Northeast, S and I stopped in at Myrtle Beach, DC, and Philly. I think I will take a couple seconds and write about each part, because each was thrilling.

The first portion was PACKING. Ugh. After weeks of selling furniture, giving away clothes to Goodwill, and pruning my belongings down to books, and what I really didn’t want to re-buy (I’m poor, remember?), I still couldn’t fit it all in my car. I put all of my books in S.’ parents’ basement, along with a couple other nonessential items that I most likely wouldn’t use over the summer (saxophone, etc). I thought I’d be able to fit it all, but after a trial pack, I knew I was in trouble. I ended up getting a car topper bag, and hoped that all of my stuff would make it. It was a very packed car in the end, including the stuffed bag on top, and a bike rack on the back, but it fit!

My car had been having brake issues, so I was still unsure that we would make it successfully (I had 4 lights on in my dash), but we did. The only eventful moment was when we were about 30 minutes away from my house and a car pulled up next to me honking. A woman mouthed to me emphatically “your bike!” and I of course, panicked and pulled over. My bike had come unattached and was floating, only half attached, behind me. Miraculously it doesn’t appear to have any damage! Later, a coworker, who followed me somewhere, told me that my front wheel still hit the road every time I went over a bump, so I took it off, and tied in on the bike as well. Other than those small things, no vehicle problems at all!!

I had never been to Myrtle Beach before, but S has been to North Myrtle many, many times. We stayed at the Sheraton, 4 blocks from the beach. It was very nice, but we didn’t have a lot of time to enjoy it, since we didn’t arrive until 10pm! We drove down the strip in search for our hotel, and S. and I agreed that it was very much like Gatlinburg, on the way out of the Smokies – tacky. But a pretty well done tacky. We checked into the hotel and decided to go for a late night walk on the beach. The water was pretty nice, and we stuck out feet in as we walked a few blocks down. It was so sweet and romantic – a great way to start our trip. We had hoped to find pizza on out walk, but the only place we found wasn’t accepting credit cards, so we went back to our room and after much to do, ordered pizza at 1am. We ate far too much of it, but it was very tasty!

The next morning we slept in, then went out to play some mini golf, which Myrtle Beach is known for, but my desire to not drive too far trumped our desire for cool and we ended up at a less than impressive place right near the hotel. It was still fun, but there weren’t as many fireworks as many other places. After Putt Putt (as S.’s family calls it), we grabbed breakfast (bagels and Starbucks) and wandered down to the beach and played in the water. It was amazing. The water was in the 70’s, the company was fabulous, and except for the looming million miles of driving, it was perfect.

The next stop on the trip was DC, to visit a friend who I was close to in high school, but hadn’t seen in two years. She works in the Eisenhower building doing super exciting presidential stuff, travelling around the world, being awesome. It was really exciting to see her. I have missed her so very much. It was also really neat because she has a real, grown-up job, and she gave us a private tour of the Eisenhower building. We had to give her our social security numbers and get clearance before we could get in. The color scheme in the unrenovated part was atrocious, in fact it matched the mauve of the telephone in the toilet room of our really fancy Hilton in Capitol Hill that we stayed in. (Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the nice Crowne Plaza in West Richmond that we also stayed at – nice too!)

I had never been to DC, just driven through a bunch of times, so we did all the touristy stuff – the memorials, a few Smithsonian museums, local dining (although everything was closed Sunday night).

After DC we hopped into the car to visit S,’ sister, then stopped in Philly and went to the Mutter Museum, a museum of medical oddities. I could go into great detail about the experience, but it’s something that I would like to forget, because it left me feeling pretty ucky, so I don’t want to spend time writing about it.

Tuesday night we finally pulled into Boston, only to discover that the people I was planning to stay with had a full house, with only a super uncomfortable twin bed available. Like, this bed was made 40 years ago and pretty much touches the floor the second the get in it. An air mattress would be better. They could have shifted around guests (one was a solo guest, and we could have had the hard futon), but the nice bed topper we bought on our last visit was on a bed taken by summer guests (a family member of a close friend she couldn’t deny), which couldn’t be retrieved. They also have the entire top floor of the house for the whole summer, which is where I thought I was going to be all summer, and part of the fall. Instead I discovered that other people will be in and out all summer on the other futon, and I may be getting the old, smelly, uncomfortable twin bed. If I wasn’t so poor, I would take a sublet elsewhere, but I am worried I can’t even afford first and last for an apartment in the fall, so I may end up just dealing with it, or maybe bumming off other friends every once and a while to supplement my work home in VT. We’ll see. My stuff is currently still all packed in my car, with the exception of my Paris stuff, and my car topper which we lifted off and locked in a garage. Ugh. “Citizen of the World” <- much better way to look at it.

So, the resolution for last night is that S. tried half the night to find something on Priceline, which has consistently provided low cost, high caliber hotels, but came up dry. He also called every hotel within 10 miles of the place we were at and found nothing. He ended up using all of his points to get us a lovely hotel right near the airport (he had a morning flight out, I trekked back to J.’s house), and we were upgraded to an executive suite. It had a big conference table with 6 chairs, a sitting room, and free Milano cookies! I had been so stressed up to that point and I finally cracked. In the silly, ridiculous, can’t-stop-laughing way. It was a nice way to spend my last night of this entire 1500 trek with the man I love. I can’t believe S. used all his points for it. He takes such good care of me :]

After a morning of packing and rushing around, I am currently on a night flight to Paris. We left at 6:45pm and will arrive at 7:30am. J and R just fell asleep (4 hours in), but I had Starbucks in the airport, so I may just be really messed up and sleep deprived tomorrow. I have an aisle with nothing to lean against, so I don’t think I could even sleep without the caffeine. Instead I am typing, and watching 27 Dresses on the overhead TV. This flight isn’t bad, but I think to sleep properly you need someone to cuddle with, a window seat, or a business sleeper. J and R are curled up together near the window. Cute.

So, by the time I post this I will be on a wonderful working vacation in Paris. Whooo!