DAY 19: Ribbit…

Up and at ‘em early to run along the Seine down to the Eiffel Tower and back. Pretty majestic morning with the sun peaking over the top of the Lourve, melting away snow cover along with other dedicated runners sharing the same brisk air, watching every step on the icy walkways. Back to le flat for the last time- Michael and I drank cappuccinos, showered, packed our bags (Luigi gained some weight) and bid adeu to our temporary little hacienda. We grabbed salads at a nearby café and said our good-byes on the metro at Chatelet. I was off to Bercy to board the train to Dijon, and on my way, I concluded that each metro line is not only color-coded, but they each have a certain stench:

-The 14 (Bercy- leaving Paris) smells like baby wipes and egg salad that sat out on a picnic table all afternoon. In July. In Tuscan.

-The 4 (St. Germain- home, Clignancourt-market) smells like orange zest, perfumeries and fresh baked croissants.

-The 11 (Belleville- coal turned diamond) smells like Heineken burps, lamb curry and muddled mint.

-The 1 (Lourve- iconic, Hotel de Ville- shopping) smells like cotton candy, hot dogs and an ice skating rink.

-The 8 (Saint Denis- black market for apparel) smells like b.o. drenched pleather, Jack Daniels and Stetson cologne.

-The 7 (Opera- designer central) smells like caviar, champagne and Italian leather.

-The B (coming to Paris) smells like fear, curiosity and Chinese food.

-The C (lost & Versailles) smells like coal, graffiti and Chinese food.

I love the music that is frequently heard throughout the metro as well… Bavarian men’s string quartet, students from the local music conservatory, French pop version of Jason Mraz and Jamacan drummers. Eclectic, soulful, happy musicians doing what they love in the poster schlepped, spray paint covered, underground maze.

On the train to mustard county, the sight of sunny, green vineyards and small towns dotted the countryside as I drifted to sleep, only to wake up to a winter wonderland that I was not excited about. It is cold and snowing in Dijon. And slippery. Case in point: in my search for Hotel de Victor Hugo, I was crossing an intersection with Lu and Roo of course, and slipped and fell on the ice. Kids at the bus stop were rolling with laughter, old ladies looked on with concern and couples passed me pretending to see nothing. I felt like a turtle on it’s shell trying to flip over- 3^rd grade come rushing back… great start. After asking locals and looking for signs to my hotel (of course I don’t have a map or a street name… good one Whit), I (luckily) came across it an hour later. Needless to say I was freezing, tired and hungry (shocking, I know). It is quaint little place, looks like an old mansion- very clean, quiet and modest. I’ve decided Burgundy will be my “vacation” time… sleep in, chill out, see what I want, if I want, when I want. Especially in this weather, I have no desire to ice skate anywhere.

After camping out in the hotel for a few, I made the executive decision to check out the city and find something to eat. I made a promise to myself that if I decide to eat out at a restaurant, I have to order something I’ve never tried before and completely exotic. Hello Le Germinal. This place was covered in frogs, from the tacky ceramic chimes décor to the cartoon etchings on the windows… Whelp, here goes nothin’! I asked for an English menu so I knew EXACTLY what I was getting myself into… I found the craziest variety of proteins and omegas possible and ordered Paella de la Plazza. Thirty minutes later, a huge cork bowl/platter of rice arrives covered with salmon, scampi, cuttlefish, prawns, mussels, chorizo, gambas, rabbit octopus and FROG LEGS. Note that each of these crustaceans/mammals/amphibians had all their major body parts- bones, toes, eyeballs and brains. The 3 different types and sizes of shrimp were good- the small guys I ate with the shell, the big’ons I ate sans shell, head and antennas… Cuttlefish tastes like the bottom of an oil drum- pass. Mussels, salmon and chorizo were bomb. The octopus was really good and rubbery. And the frog legs were really quite good! They turn a pale yellow color when cooked, and you eat them like wings. They have tiny little bones and a scallop texture that pulls apart like chicken. I figured the rice, green peppers and onions would help cover any weird textures or taste, but it was a fabulous dish!

Not THE most exciting day, but after going hard in Paris for 10 days, I need a little R&R. I’m sure people at home want to slap me right now… More from Dijon tomorrow- Au revoir!

DAY 18: Macaroon 101

Sandra gave us pounding headaches this morning with our smorgasbord of bevies last night. Michael braved the cold, rainy weather and did laps in Luxembourg Garden, while I searched for a place to stay in Dijon via the world wide web. What on earth did we do without the Internet? More important question: What on earth did we do without macaroons?

We made it to the Marias District at a snail's pace in search of good Japanese ramen (Michael lived in Japan for two years, so he knows his ramen)... took us awhile but alas. My stomach has a better sense of direction than my head, unfortunately. On our way to the Pompidou (modern art museum), we found some macaroons. Not just any macaroons, but God's gift to man's mouth macaroons. Pistachio cheese, chocolate passionfruit, coffee caramel, blackberry currant... the texture is a soft cake/meringue with a cool, creaminess in between... heaven in your mouth.  I wish I had pictures of both our faces each time we bit into a new flavor... we were cracking up because they kept getting better and we'd face each other, miming and savoring our extraordinary discovery! I decided that if I got hit by a bus, I'd die happy, for I spent the whole afternoon with art, macaroons and good company.

The modern art was tiring... I appreciated Picasso, Chagall and Dali of course, but they were all before 1960 and were ACTUALLY artistic. The new millennium shit is wacko- French videos of women standing on street corners with a cardboard box over their boobs, letting men line up to cop a feel. If I did that, people would want their money back. A few hours later M and I decided to find a hospital and get IV's of caffeine... no luck, so we stopped in Saint Martin's church- dark, cold and eery, with gospel music playing and candles lit along the pews...cool ambiance.  For my final Paris spectacle, we metroed over to the Arc de Triumph and stood in awe, in the rain imagining valiant soldiers and esteemed predecessors entering through the arch to the center of the city, greeted by the townspeople... such history.

Back to St. Germain in the rain we trucked, We grabbed a few splendors for dinner- caprese salad (nothing beats fresh mozzarella, tomatoes and basil), veggie burger patties and our last (we claim) "fromage and pain" for awhile. For my finale night in Paris, we decided to get our jazz on. So we got all shnazzed up and headed to Le Duce des Lombards, the most respected jazz club in the city. I ran for cappuccinos while M stood in line and oh what a treat! J. Schwartz-Bart and S. Everett with special guest Anne Ducros- extremely renowned musicians and boy did they deliver. We sat right by the drums and drank our new favorite Polish vodka that is like a nutmeg party in a glass. Really entertaining show, full house and killer venue. After a night cap at a bar across the street, we hopped on the last metro of the evening around 1:30 am and headed to le flat.

Off to Dijon tomorrow! After a glutenous and glamorous 10 days in Paris, I'm ready to get out and see the country, eat more fruits and vegetables and see less tourists.

DAY 17: The Angry Lawyer

Starting your day off with a leisurely run through Luxemburg Garden is a real drag. NOT. Michael and I did a few laps with the locals through fabo greens and fled the gates for the Latin Quarter, around the Pantheon, through the Mouffetard food market and back to St. Germain. After clemantines and avocados for breakfast, we put together a game plan and headed to the Lourve.

The glass “cage” pyramid is a buzz kill. It takes away from the great ambiance the center court exudes and just does not go! Inside really wasn’t spectacular. I had high hopes of seeing much more originality and instead it has become a modernized conveyer belt for tourists. Saw “Venus de Milo” and “The Last Supper,” both impressive, but my favorite was “La Victoire de Samothrace.” Wind and wings are a winner- the draping across her body is sooooo beautiful and her wings and stance are poised and powerful. M and I split up and I continued on through the third salon which smelled like a Fromagerie- I felt like I was at recess and all the kids were crop dusting and running away. When you’re playing tag in front of Jesus, it means you don’t know where the hell you are and definitely aren’t appreciating what you’re looking at.

And that Mona Lisa is a real attention whore. After the 32nd Chinese family posed smack dab in front of her (keeping the flash on, which reflects off the protective glass, so you can’t even see the painting), I had to leave. Good luck finding an exit in the Lourve. I go to museums to get lost in my mind (not lose my mind), go back in time and enjoy peace and quiet. Jabbering Italians, Brits on their mobiles and screaming 1st graders offended me. I felt there was a lack of respect for the art and its home. My feet were killing me, so I found the shopping and dining hall and fell in love. Yes, my new boyfriend, “Pistachio Macaroon” and I will be very happy together. I took M one and he also fell in love, so we’ll have to fight over him.

Onto Champs Elysees where we found a Ma & Pa Brasserie with cheese, wine and a bossy book keeper that helped herself behind the bar to a cheese plate and cocktail… we decided to check out Belleville for dinner, in the north-eastern corner of Paris. When we got off the metro and started walking, I had flashbacks from the ghetto in Mexico. I felt like we were at an Arabian sausage fest where all the brides were sent away and futbol consumed every bar. After 10 minutes of brisk, unsettled walking, we took a “right” turn and found ourselves in a very cool neighborhood. Mecana was a bar we started the evening, with house-infused caramel vodka also known as liquid crack. Further down the way we found a diamond in the rough- what we both agreed was the best part of the trip thus far- "CARAVANE."

Faling in love twice in the same day is rare- this time, it was with our waitress "Sandra." If Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek had a baby together... This little fire plug from Portugal started us with mojitos and translated their Guatamalen, Thai, Indian and French fusion menu. “Can we have one of everything please?” We started with a game of chess (seriously) and “feroce d’avocat,” which when I looked it up translated to “angry lawyer.” It was avocado ground with fish and paprika with fried plantain banana fries. For dinner we shared “Tom Ka Kai”- a play off of Tom Yum soup with basil, chicken, mushrooms, red pepper and coconut milk- and “Wok de Legumes”- noodles with mushrooms, cilantro, carrots, tofu, curry and onions. This all paired terrifically with a bottle of Vouvray- by far, the best wine of the trip. We moved from a back table up to the bar (all the chairs, stools and tables are old school house furniture hodge-podged in a colorful 5-room space with great art and even better music) to enjoy espresso, cognac and Sandra. I chatted her up about places in Portugal and tied a bib around Michael’s neck to catch the drool. After we paid the bill, she said good-bye to us with two shots of “Zubrowka,” Bison Grass Vodka from Poland that tasted like cinnamon. I heart Paris. 

I finally got my pedometer working- we ran/walked 15 miles yesterday! No wonder my feet hurt… one more day in grand Paris, and then off to Burgundy!

DAY 16: Free Willy!

This just in:

 SeaWorld is coming to Bozeman! On June 1st, come to the Bozeman airport to see the phenominal trick whale "Wet" escorted out of the cargo compartment on a gurney! Buy tickets in advance, one day only!

I told my mother she may need to purchase an extra plane ticket home for my left "cheek." I'm not sure if I've made myself clear... the food here is RIDICULOUS. Self-control is sucks.

I cleaned up the flat for Mr. Michael to arrive and decided to walk up and down EVERY street in St. Germain. Well try anyway. I found some great shops and restaurants- great little alley passages that don't have names, but are lined with crepe stands and mini brasseries... passed the "Breakfast Club"- high school girls in hooker pumps with fur jackets smoking cigs and drinking espresso while gossiping about the latest Gossip Girl (I assume). I wanted in, but it was members only- you had to have at least 3 inch heels on.  Forget Hong Kong... I'd be the shining star in the remake: "Godzilla Does Paris." Babies would cry, french twigs would flail and grown men would cower. Wait? Men do that around me already...

 I found a cheap Japanese place called the Sushi Shop- for 11 euros you get a full lunch- bowl of miso, cabbage salad and 3 sushi rolls. I couldn't finish, it was so much food- killer deal. I later stumbled into the Musee du Rodin. It was like a secret garden for adults. "The Thinker" was astounding, and the "Doors of Hell" detailing up close was very impressive (I saw a casting of the doors in d'Orsay). I'm sure the garden is romantically enchanting in the springtime. I love his obsession with hands- the gallery had all of his work, some pieces started and never finished, but he loved to study le paw.

I came back to the flat and found a grizzly bear sleeping, turned the lights on and realized it was Michael. That jet lag is a real drag. I gave him another hour, then pounced on him to go play. We took the Metro to the Bastille and walked around Place des Vosges and found a great wine bar called Le Bourbon Rouge in the Marais area- standing room only. Sampled a few verres de blancs, asked for some dinner recommendations and worked our way through some back passages and found stellar spot with live music. We shared a bottle of Olivier Cousins Cab. Franc and fois gras sauteed with onions, sweet red peppers, egg and panchetta- yum. I ordered mussels and he the duck confit- the blue ribbon of the evening were the pommes- baby potatoes, roasted to perfection. I have to say it wasn't the MOST impressive meal thus far, both a little overcooked/dry, but we still had a blast. Of course we had to try the tiramisu (I'm convinced one of my many missions in life is to find the best tiramisu in the world- La Familia in Helsinki still takes the cake, but David Wheeler's at Plonk is a close second) and we finale'd with cappuccinos.

It is SO great to have a friend here to explore and chat with. I feel like I've been talking non-stop (he probably wants me to put a sock in it)... I've learned so much about metros, food, toilets and vocabulary in just a week. Who says you need to be in a classroom to learn. The WORLD is my classroom!

We made a plan to run in the morning... don't you dare take bets on whether it will happen or not- I need a swift kick in the booty to get back on track- literally! Especially with my latest consumption habits.  I don't think there's enough room for "Wet" the whale back in Bozeman...

To the Louve manana!  Peace and hair grease...

DAY 15: Whitewashed and Wiglicious

I was not winning any races today. It took every ounce of energy I had to get out to Versailles in this bone chilling weather- as I drug my feet all morning. It’s hard not to feel “dutiful” when you are on “vacation”… at home I’d be curled up in bed with a book all day, but in Paris? You brave whatever forecast you’ve drawn and don’t forget your mittens!

I started out my morning/mid-morning/noon with a giant Starbucks latte (first of the trip) that made me feel 15 times better, even though it was gone before I walked out the door. I grabbed a ham, mozzarella and tomato Panini from a guy with HUGE veneers and a street wagon and headed underground. While I was waiting for the train to Versailles, I turned around and there was a large, black face hovering over my right shoulder, breathing in my ear. I felt like I was in Alien 2. Completely startled, I hissed at him and he SLOWLY backed up. What a freak! He freakin’ scared me… and p.s. south-western Paris looks like south-central Los Angeles.

Thirty minutes later I was booking it up the hill to the Chateau de Versailles. Have I mentioned that is sub-arctic temps here? It would be a test to get me to SKI in this air! Once in, I found myself in front of some very impressive paintings, but more importantly the work that had heating vents below them. Louis XIV was not an attractive man in the LEAST bit and his “bitches and hoes” looked like they’d been ridden hard and put away wet. Pale faced and chubby wearing ludicrous wigs, their only glimmer were their pearls. It IS true that money can buy you happiness because these people were the most unfortunate of the fortunate. Big Lu was very self-absorbed, as he had paintings of himself EVERYWHERE… “I want one of me facing east, and then another where I’ve rotated 45 degrees north-east, and then another where I’ll switch my hand position and my hat, and then another….” Seriously, he, his double chin and his brown curly coif were as arrogant and pretentious as they come! I don’t know why they haven’t done a Mystery Science Theater of Versailles paintings. The facial expressions and body positions in some scenes are hilarious! You’d think that for as long as it took the artists to create these, they wouldn’t make the center figure look like he has to fart.

The chateau/palace/cabin really was amazing- the ceiling frescos were most impressive. After my brain had thawed, it was all I could do to get out of there because the entire country of China decided to have a field trip- and they take pictures of EVERYTHING. From the velvet ropes to the SORTIE (exit) signs to the dust bunnies- they don’t want to miss a thing! I walked through the yards and gardens until I was fed up with the gale force winds. You’d think I’d be used to this, coming from Montana, but it is frigid. I walked back into town and wanted to find a café to warm up in- shouldn’t be hard- well, it was and I had to ask for directions back to the train station. “Fredrick” knew as much English as I know French, so I pulled my middle school cheerleading moves out of my bag-o-tricks (I never made the team) and did a charades skit on “Bang-Bang Choo-Choo Train” that worked like a charm. “Oui!!!” He walked me to the station, speaking French the entire time… I just nodded and laughed. He was probably telling me that he had just found his deceased mother in her house, with her 11 cats eating her face.

Speaking of, back at the mother ship, I decided to stay “in” for the evening and make dinner, so I picked up some fois gras and smoked salmon (cheap!), dijon mustard and goat cheese. I ran by PAUL’s and picked up a pretzel looking loaf of olive bread- TA’ DIE FOR- and had a lovely little montage of French culinary delights. My landlord  “J.J.” stopped by to meet me and check in. He is a musician and his wife is an artist (paintings in the flat- very good), both very nice people. They never took a deposit out and told me to leave “rent “ on the table when I leave- pretty trusting. I appreciate there are still people like that (granted they have all my credit card information…) Read ANOTHER book on France- a little research on Dijon and Nice, my next stops of the journey.

Luigi and Roo don’t want to leave, and I’m afraid neither do I. A few more days in this wonderful city (with my friend Michael who flies in tomorrow!) and I’m off to wine country. I’m going to put on every article of clothing I packed and brave the cold another day.

Stay warm, Au revoir!

DAY 14: “I’ve seen the same Seine you saw”

I’ve been gone two weeks and it feels like two days- Paris is flying by before my eyes! Corn flakes and a banana this morning, saving croissants for the weekend.  I did my laundry for the first time this trip in the sink with dishwashing soap (every place that sold laundry detergent was closed!) and hung it all on hangers out the window. I then decided to walk along the Seine since the sun was trying to come out. I found myself at the center court of the Louve housing the famous glass pyramid. I can’t wait to check out the museum (Thursday), along with 5,000 strangers. Wouldn’t it be nice to get private tours of these places, without seeing another soul? Yeah right…

 I’ve been needing a haircut, so I found a Tony & Guy on Rue de St. Honore- they shampooed my hair for 10 minutes, gave me a head massage and the best haircut I’ve ever received! It makes you wonder how it’ll turn out when all of the sylists have funky, weird, half-shaved, half-dyed, punkish heads-o-hair, but I still look semi-normal. Apparently they (Tony & Guy) specialize in the Euro-short hair styles… whatever.  I quickly grabbed more ramen at another Sapparro’s and walked over to the Bourse du Commerce (looked like a church, not quite sure…)- big and beautiful non-the-less. I imagine their prisons looks like palaces. I continued into a large Forum (mall) to get a few warmer pieces, as I haven’t stopped shivering for the last four days.

The sun had just set when I walked outside, so I wandered to Champs Elysees to witness one of the most outstanding spectacles I’ve ever seen. The Eiffel tour was glowing, riverboats skimmed while lights from the bridges reflected off the water. The top half of the sky was periwinkle and purple with heather grey splashes of clouds, while the bottom a tangerine orange from the city lights. I stood on a bridge in front of a palace (surprisingly alone) and took it all in.

On my way back towards St. Germain, I stopped in antique stores along rue le Mauberg and found a great little wine place called Vin 7. I had to stop. I ordered 6 Burgundy snails with garlic butter and a Sauvignon Blanc. Does it look bad when I am shoving my bread into the shell to get every last flavor morsel? It was that good. There were a few other soldiers dining solo and my waiter, Gentle Ben was VERY Bennie- on-the-spot. You WILL NOT find a young man or woman waiting tables or bartending. They are all older men (I almost said gentlemen, but I’ve gotten some real doozies) who pride themselves very much on their occupation. I believe a full mustache is encouraged, but not mandatory. It’s nice when they’re nice, but again, the whole wall staring contest bit gets old. I love that restaurants use old liquor bottles as water bottles. I passed a guy with half a bottle of Absolut on his tiny café table and I wanted to sit with him and tell him everything would be ok…

Metropolitan. I’m dedicating this next paragraph to the people of the underground….

-To the crazy broad that stumbles across the gap to yell profanities, lecturing fellow passengers of what is good and right and why we should be giving her our money. I wonder what she’d do if you popped her in the snot box?

- To the couples that insist on making out at EVERY stop or their existence, as they know it, will end. And they sound like the woman sitting across from me at lunch slurping up her ramen noodles. Gag.

-To the woman who itched her face for the duration of SEVEN stops. Meth? Maybe. I just wish I knew how to say “You’ll only make it worse” in French.

- To the dogs- seeing-eye, miniature/designer/toy somethings, St. Bernards… even the homeless people have dogs in their laps! I had a guy laying across the steps in a back (creepy, dark) stair case with 3 dogs around him- I jumped about three feet into a guy behind me when I turned the corner. Can I give your dog money for food and not you because you’ll probably use it to buy drugs?? Great, thanks.

- To the only hunchbacks I’ve seen near Notre Dame, the old ladies that poke their canes and yell at younger people… everyone… because they want to sit down/deserve a seat. And they get off at the next stop.

- To the people that step on with their nose in a book, don’t flinch when the train moves, and without batting an eyelash, step off the train like clockwork. I call them Pro Subbers.

- And finally, to the tourists that lug 3 rolling suitcases on, let them tip over while they rip out their map and ask me for directions… ha!

When I returned to my flat, I had a “pink slip,” written in French, under my door. Oh crap. Was I playing my music too loud when I had my private dance party last night??  I scrambled for my French-English dictionary and made out “window” and “line”… Ahhhhh, no hanging skivvies out the window, phew!

Off to Versailles tomorrow, au revoir!

DAY 13: Monet, Manet, Money…

Rainy and cold again… ahhhh January. Dropped into PAUL’s across the street for a croissant and cappuccino- melt in your mouth goodness. The market was abuzz…

Got on the Metro to Clignancourt, where the biggest flea market in Paris takes place. The first few hundred stalls are sneakers, knock-off designer bags and baggy jeans… but if you survive the oogling and “S’il vous plait Mademoiselle,” you venture back into the depths of wonderfulness. The sole reason I’m determined to make millions (besides paying off THIS trip) is to shop at the Paris flea market… to adorn my 5 homes. Stalls are packed to the brim with silver dishes, chairs from Napoleon, crystal chandeliers, lithographs from the early 18oo’s, fabrics so exquisite, you have furniture custom made to use them… and the jewelry. Oh the jewelry. Vintage Chanel, emerald leopard brooches, gold crowns embellished with rubies and sapphires, diamond rings the size of lion’s toes and special pieces hand made by local Parisians- my “score” of the day.

I started to lose feeling in my feet, and the shopkeepers were heading to lunch, so I made my way to Musee d’Orsay and decided to grab a bite myself. It was PACKED, but this is where flying solo pays off- you get to jump ahead of everyone and their whiney children.  Two American women behind me had me in stitches… I think they were trying to be Parisian- “Doris” had black hair in a big rats nest atop her noggin, with blood pudding lip liner, Jackie O’s (hiding her recent face lift), grey sweat pants (surely Chanel), riding boots and a long, black fur jacket. “Louise” was a peroxide dear, who walked like a mummy and just as she was about to say something, I realized she was trying to gain feeling in her botched upper lip- she donned a brown fur coat that swept the floor, accessorized by every gold piece of jewelry from YSL’s fall collection. When I heard a Texas accent bellow out I nearly spit my Eidelweiss Blond all over the table.

I ate a grilled chicken salad with endive, grapefruit and beets- sliced and peeled for flare. The dining room was delectable with putis and angles flying around the ceiling, a marble statue of a curvy woman in the center of the room, surrounded by crystal chandeliers that complimented the gold leaf carvings. There was an exhibit on mushrooms and acid… I mean Art Nouveau… works by Aubrey Beardsley and showcases of great album covers for The Doors, The Grateful Dead and Joni Mitchell. I loved seeing work by Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Cezanne and Matisse… I won’t bore you with a history lesson, but it was really something to see their work up close and personal.

It’s a good thing I didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions like no carbs, gluten, sugar or caffeine… I’ll look like a Rodin sculpture by the time I leave Paris, but it is OH-SOOO-WORTH it! I attempted walking home from the museum, but of course I got lost and had to rely on the Metro. Every storefront I passed was closed, except for my neighborhood. Every single restaurant, bakery, café, clothing store and chocolate store was open and busy. I took it all in for about an hour and sauntered back to Bourbon Le Chateau. Dinner consisted of day old baguette that was nearly too hard to eat (I learned you should eat it within 4 hours of exiting the oven- imagine what it does inside your stomach?), salami, Camembert, Cotes du Rhone and pears while listening to Madeleine Peyroux and reading another book on Paris, which I finished by midnight. 

A few randoms:

-They eat horses! Some prefer it over beef and mutton… sad.

-I had my first ass-grab of the trip… a man walking by bumped me and grabbed a handful! I thought he was robbing me, but realized he just wanted a piece! That’s the closest I’ve gotten to being hit on.  Sad.

-Free WiFi is not free. You pay between 1-5 pounds every 30 min-1 hour, depending on the place.... luckily, I made friends with a little boutique hotel below me that lets me sit in their lobby and poach...

-It’s a good thing I’m not vegetarian because they DO NOT cater to them. Obviously when you have legs of lamb and sausages hanging over piles of chickens and pate bowls.

-Concerning window décor, there has to be psychological equation for certain visual “please-er-ies” and their affects on sales. Pastries are like puppies- you just HAVE to take one home! Bakeries and hat shops look identical: they have their best “work” on display, each supported by a sturdy base with complimentary colors building north. Delicate sugared lace, cut-outs of fruit felt, silky glazes with sequin shavings- each a masterpiece, though one lasts longer and is a bit pricier than the other.

Au revoir from this bon vivant: a person who enjoys good food and drink!

DAY 12: Harry my hands are FREEZING!

I did not witness the Hunchback of Notre Dame... only 1,100 tourists. And I almost got kicked out for walking in with an EMPTY cup-o-joe. "It's empty, see?" As I tipped it upside down. "No no no!!!" So I jammed it in my purse and carried on.  French security guards are angry little toads...

I feel Like my brain is one big chandelier and when I see all of this art, the little bulbs turn on one by one...  such a beautiful church, inside and out. It is remarkable how creative and whimsical they were back then. My favorite are the bronze women climbing up the top of one of the pointed tops outside... that sounded really educated I know... after all those years of art history, my professors would be so proud... I wonder if you can RENT Notre Dame? What would THAT cost? Can't you imagine one of those little J.A.P. (Jewish American Princess) brats from MTV's My Super Sweet 16... "Daddy I want my wedding in Notre Dame (butchering the pronunciation) and I want golden geese to fly out of the windows when we walk out, dropping roses from their beaks..."

I grabbed a pan au chocolate and a cappuccino and continued on down the cobblestones of Rue le Saint Louis... fantastic store fronts featuring jewelry and fabrics from Indonesia and Israel, cheese and meat shops that were closed for "lunch hour," and men playing pianos and accordions on the corners. It's the same background music that plays in 98% of romantic scenes filmed in Paris- makes me want to put my tap shoes on, if I had some.... and knew what to do with them.

I wanted to find a flea market, so I asked a woman picking out flowers with her daughter and she politely pointed me in the right direction. Though when I arrived, no one knew what market I was talking about. Plan B: I've been told I HAVE to visit Harry's bar, near the Opera, as it was the first bar in Europe- American non-the-less. It took me 2 hours to find it, and along the way I found an Irish pub called Kitty O'Shea's... I swear they are like homing devices- when in doubt, an Irish pub will appear with all the answers. So I chatted with some great Irishmen while they screamed at the rugby on television, and decided to continue on my journey to find Harry.

It was full of french people, they didn't know how to make a martini and it was over-priced. But I did find ancient Montana State and University of Montana flags on the wall which made me grin. I'd worked up an appetite from walking around all day- in the freezing rain mind you- so I stepped right across the street into Saporros Japanese Restaurant that was BUSTLING. I found a seat at the bar, opened the menu, saw Japanese and French, closed my eyes and pointed to something that said "ramen marine"... sounds like seafood with noodles, right? Well it was ramen noodles with pork, bean sprouts and seaweed in a broth and it was yummo. And I watched them prepare everything... I love watching people cook. It's safe to say I have an obsession with food. I GET Julia Childs... And I always sit at the bar for that reason, and you get better service from bartenders here... and I like to see how other people in my "field" handle themselves. Waiters get annoyed if you ask them for sugar or a glass of water- it's like you are interrupting their staring contest with the wall. P.S. The Opera is a remarkable building... I noticed when I walked around it 4 times, in both directions...

The French are BEAUTIFUL people. Dark haired, chiseled features, great style.... I stick out like a sore thumb. They love walking around markets and streets as much as I do.... On Saturday evenings, they go get everything they'll need for brunch with the family the next day... you won't see an Parisians out of their homes on a Sunday, or working, everything is closed.

A tisket, a tasket, I'm off to fill my basket at the market tomorrow!

DAY 11: Flat le Connolly

Sausages, sausages, sausages...

You know that dog food commercial where the guy is talking to his dog, but all the dog hears is "sausages"? I feel like that, not only because I have no idea what people are saying, but also because there are sausages EVERYWHERE!

After about an hour of sleep on a heinous children's bunk bed, I literally fell out onto Romanian roomie's suitcase. I went to brush my teeth and the bathroom floor was flooded. Lovely. With my keen acrobatic skills, I turned the faucet on with my toes, brushed, and tried to heave/spit into the sink. Landed a little short into the pool of multi-cultural bath water. I just threw up in my mouth when I wrote that...

I immediately went on the Internet to find a different place to stay- sometimes you can't depend on people's word (numerous people flaking on letting me stay with them), you just have to matters into your own hands. So after an hour, the cheapest/most decent place I could find was a flat. It was a last minute deal and looked perfect. And it was.

I checked out of the hell-hole, grabbed a taxi and let myself into my new home for the next 10 days. Right in the center of St. Germain where one of the most famous markets takes place daily- on Rue de Buci and Rue de Sienne- I am on Bourbon le Chateau. My small, one room space includes a bathroom with a great, tall shower, a kitchen and a big comfy queen size bed. I'm in heaven. I took a HOT shower and actually felt clean for the first time in a week. Luigi and Roo will be safe and sound here too.

Off to the Eiffel Tower I went, via the subway. P.S. I was wrong when I thought I had it all figured out... I took a little detour to the South of Paris on the C train... an hour and a half later I was standing in front of the Tower with 400 camera-happy Japanese people. I was really excited to see it, but when I got there, disappointed by how touristy it felt. Maybe I'll go back at night and go up to the top. It really is quite an engineering feat, but all the people made me feel like I was at Disneyland on Christmas Day.

I took in a Nicoise salad and headed back to St. Germain to do a little grocery shopping... on my way, I was stopped by a FABULOUS candy shop called Masmundi- with a painted ceiling, walls and silver platters of sweets, I felt like I was in Willy Wonka's gourmet chocolate factory! The candies are made in Tunisienne, North Africa and are pieces of art. I sampled a honey and pistachio filling wrapped in thin pasta, drizzled with fruit and pistachio pieces... almost too beautiful to eat, until I tasted it... heaven in my mouth.

Just walking through the market is enough to make your nostrils melt. The aromas of fresh baked croissants, flowers, fruit stands- I grabbed a clementine and ate it as I perused. Women with their dogs stand in line at the meat shops. Children sword fight in line with baguettes. But the cheese shops are my favorite: 50 varieties of goat cheese, stinky, nutty unpronounceable French wedges, and wheels of Brie the size of bicycle tires, so soft they're bulging at the sides with ripeness. I picked up a baguette, salami, Camembert, figs, a bottle of red wine, pears... and Corn Flakes.

A few random thoughts and impressions:

-What is the big deal about Egg Mayonnaise? Well apparently it is the emblem of bistro cooking. The perfect, crispy lettuce leaf, with egg and mayo involving the same, equally perfect consistency as one another. Mmmmmm

-France's pooper-scoopers are motor bikes with vacuums- motocrottes- oh the French and their muts in their designer Longchamp jackets...

- It cracked me up while at lunch, two French twigs donning fox fur scarves at the table next to me look at me pityingly like I've just been stood up. They whispered over the latest lettuce leaf, espresso and cigarettes. "Tall American writing in her book... how sad..."

-Unfortunately there are several "Le McDo's" polluting the city streets, ruining the fresh-baked aroma with greasy fries.

- This city really does ENCOURAGE public kissing... its like they multiply over the bridges and in front of landmarks.

-Museums= Enrichment
 Shopping= Impoverished
But I want it all!!!

Off to bed in my peaceful little sanctuary with only the sounds of  door bell jingles, jazz from a nightclub in the distance and men whistling tunes as the walk down the street...

DAY 10: An American in Paris

Papa Spyke drove me to the airport 2.5 hours early. I kissed the ground when I got out of the car- after witnessing a cigarette in one hand, phone in the other, IPOD in the lap and knee (kind of) on the wheel, I didn't think I'd get to see Paris after all! Happy to be out of a "bachelor pad" as well... use your imagination... ick.

I had a nice little lunch in the airport before my 45 minute flight to the City of Light. Still don't have a place to stay... people keep flaking out on me! I may just have to cough it up and do Paris the right way... the right way is not having to haul Luigi and Roo around everywhere.

Paris Metro is a breeze... with the help of a woman that sat across from me. She popped a squat next to Luigi and asked if I knew where I was going.... "Of course, can't you tell?" I actually had a good idea, but she used to live on the street I was headed to, so she gave me some "extra special" advice. She had bright red hair and looked like a gypsy- she is a proffessor and a total sweet tart.

Off the Metro and on the hostel hunt (yep, had to give in... grrrr). As I turned the corner, what do I see? "Connolly's Corner." I like Paris already. Of course its an Irish pub across from my hostel.... maybe its a sign that I was supposed to stay here.... NOPE. A horse barn is cleaner than this hole. I get 5 roomies this time, with no bathroom (toilets upstairs) and bunkbeds. Guess which one I got? Top. Only one night, only one night, only one night... I put Roo in a cage and Luigi on my bed (since they have NO security lockers) and head to the place that "everybody knows your name."

Ian and Neal Connolly were from Ennis, Ireland until their dad moved them to Paris when they were kids. Their dad has a Connolly's in Marseille as well, so I told them I'd pay him a visit when I get down there. I slugged a Guiness and went exploring...

Lovely neighborhoods, lights and fountains on every corner. People sitting outside cafes at 10pm. I found a happening Cave Les Bourgenoune and grabbed a bar stool. Julian the bartender was very cute and very attentive. I told him I want wine, salad and cheese. He brought me a glass, a GIGANTIC 4 cheese board (leftovers will feed me for 2 more days- literally a quarter wedge of a Camembert wheel) and a chalk board with all the salads listed. "Surprise me, I have no idea what any of that says." Out came duck gizzard over greens with tomatoes and balsamic and it may have been one of the best things I've ever put in my mouth. He bought me wine and chatted me up for a few hours... thought I was crazy for travelling alone for 5 months. What is it with people... AM I crazy? Well I know I'm crazy, but why is this trip so far fetched? Anyways, I may go back to visit, we'll see what my accomodations are tomorrow night.

I zig-zagged back to the hell-hole, I mean hostel and took in the vibrancy every block exuded... Italian men selling crepes and catcalling to women. Students lined up outside of a vibrating bar, smoking cigarettes. Couples enojoying wine together in candle lit cafes... great vibe. I think I'm in love. Back in the room, the foreigners were passed out, so by the light of my Nokia, I threw Luigi and Roo on the top bunk and crawled up, with all my clothes on, boots, jacket and all and passed out. Only to wake up an hour later and stare at the paint peeling on the ceiling while my Romanian roomie ground her teeth. You know those places that you feel cleaner without taking a shower, because its THAT dirty. I need to figure something else out before I get bed bugs....

More later!

DAY 9: Wicked Sweet

"Where am I?"

Oh yeah. The Travel Lodge in Sunbury, England. How could I forget? I asked the new girl at the front desk if I could walk to the train station in Ashbury Surrey, assuming she had a bigger brain than Mohammed and Mindy combined. WRONG. "I've never heard of Ashbury Surrey." Was last night a figment of my imagination? Am I starting to lose it? "Honey, it is a 10 minute cab ride from here.... don't get out much?" So I let myself out the front door and started walking- pleasantly surprised to stumble into the Sunbury Train Station ten minutes later. God I'm good.

Back into London Town I rode and decided that since I'm here, I might as well make a day of it before I trek back out to the country. Just as I skipped up the stairs from the Underground, it started to pour. Whelp, there goes my scenic tour of the city. Next on the list? Musical. I performed a few bid wars between kiosks and found a great deal on a matinee showing of WICKED. The unenthusiastic lassy behind the quarter-inch thick plexi glass must have seen the strife in my eyes (or the dark circles and smudged mascara) because she HOOKED IT UP. Aisle seat, 10 rows from the stage... made my frown do a 180 in seconds. So my hammy and swiss sammy and I took in the lights.

The CUTEST little toe-headed girl with a buret and poppy speckled rain coat sat in front of me. In expressing her excitement for the theater, she exclaimed with a lisp, "Oh Mummy,  I JUTH love va feater!" She sat on her knees and stroked her "mummy's" hair the whole time, and when the flying monkeys came out (which actually made me pee myself a little) she buried her head in her "mummy's" boobs. The show was great... fabulous costumes and grown men in spandex with asses you could bounce quarters off of... Glinda stole the show.

I found a charger for my phone so the next time I get stuck in Surrey, I'll be able to call my people. Back on the train (I swear at least half of my time in England has been sitting on a train) to Ashford I went... it cleared out after a few stops, so I had a 4-seater to myself until this 7 ft. tall pompous wind-bag, who had his own 4-seat area, decided to move directly across from me and stretch his legs out. I wanted to kick him in the shins, but instead I glared at him for the next 35 minutes,  and realized this unfortunate guy has grey nose hairs so long, they tickle his upper lip... NO JOKE. I wonder if he can even smell? I'm sure he never has allergies (or gets laid) because NOTHIN' is getting up in there. He looked like an accordion getting up out of his seat. Big and Tall stores would be petite for him...

Got back to "Papa Spyke's" and we ordered some Indian food and chatted for a bit... he's driving me to the airport tomorrow and I am off to Paris! I am happy to leave England, but still love London and here's why:

- When the taxi drivers are good, they are GOOD. If they are friendly and willing, they have a plethora of knowledge you can learn from... I swear they know everything.
-The city itself really is spectacular. I'm glad I visited before, because I didn't get to see any of the museum, landmarks, sights, etc. this time. But I did get to find some hole-in-the-wall treasures in SOHO and Chinatown and I got to see some of the countryside.
-They have the best names for streets and areas: Picadilly Circus, Portabello Road, Notting Hill... makes you want to do a little jig.

Until next time, "a river dirt cheap!" (think about it... say it out loud a few times... riddle of the day...)

Day 8: Training Day

If you ever need to get from Nowhere to London let me know. First breakdown of Blondvoyage has officially commenced. Let me start from the beginning...

Woke up in Oxford to meet Caroline for breakfast at "8 am sharp"... in the kitchen. She informed me that cow's milk is bad for you... I beg to differ- it has done this 6'2" body good. So, muslix,  toast and coffee satisfied before she dropped me in the center of Oxford to be a tourist. I climbed 150 steps up the gremlin-lined tower of St. Mary's for a spectacular view of the city. I then skipped across town to Christ Church where Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland & Through the Looking Glass) wrote his tales about the Dean's daughter Alice- much was based on parts of the college.

Before I met up with Caroline, I briefly did laps in the Ashmolean Museum... great Baroque paintings by Peter Paul Rubens and a self-portrait by Rembrandt. My favorite were stones from Mesopatamia... amethyst and jasper no bigger than almonds with extremely detailed carvings (with a needle) of animals and portraits... from 1900 B.C.! An Italian barman bought me a glass of wine as I waited for Caroline...

She left me with a "picnic" at the train station and off I went to Ashford Kent (south) to stay with a friend of a friend of a friend. Two hours later I arrive in Ashford, only to get to "Papa Spyke's" home, drop off Luigi and Roo (backpacks) and head BACK into the city to attend my friend Lewis' networking party. I've been on trains ALL day. If I hear MIND THE GAP one more time... I arrived an hour and a half later at the 8 Club, a members only swank-fest that was impossible to find.

Quickly, the low-down on "Papa Spyke": Born in Belgium. Played professional rugby for 10 years in South Africa. Was "discovered" there and started modeling for all the major designers in the mid-80's (first bald, white, tattoo-covered model). Began body building, acting and doing stunt work. After too much cocaine and steriods, his heart decided to stop and he was in a coma for months. After open heart surgery, learning how to walk and talk again, he will go in for another open-heart surgery in two weeks. QUITE the life story and such a gentleman.

So, Lewis and I attended high school together in St. Louis and he has since written a book on LinkedIN and hosts networking shin-digs all over the world... so there were over 200 industry loonies (including the guy that holds the World Record for juggling a soccer ball- 24 hours!)- that all smelled like honey and sage. I've decided English men are NOT for this girl.... Martha Manners must always be "on." They'd think I was a trashbag.

A few hours later we (Hannah- Lew's lady friend- he and I) walked outside and Lewis heard salsa music... uh-oh. We found it next door in a basement and he just HAD to dance. So Hannah and I ordered Tapas and watched him sweat it out on the dance floor.  It was time for me to catch my train back to Ashford, so they rode with me as far as they could and we said our good-byes. I then asked two guards what train would take me to Ashford and they told me to follow them, as they were headed there as well. We ended up sprinting down the platform to make it and an hour later, I arrived in Ashford... SURREY. NOT Ashford KENT. Fan-fricking-tastic...

11:59 pm: Get off train with an old lady. It is desolate. Dark. Cold. No cars. No people. Nothing. I ask her how to get back to London. "That was the last train love," as she gets into her car and drives away. Mind goes from 0-70 in seconds...

12:05 am: I get my "wits" about me and walk into "town"- read: Harrison, Montana in the dead of winter when the all the locals are on holiday. Except I would feel ALOT safer in Harrison. So I walk around, looking for signs of life, wondering if God is bored and wanted some entertainment.

12:15 am: Find the ONLY light on in town and it's a 24 hour Taxi service! No shit! Go in and interupt "Rajul's" Indiana Jones marathon to have him call a few hotels nearby to see if there are rooms available. Oh p.s. my cell phone died...  "All booked? Ok, thank you." I heard that come out of his mouth about 19 times before he found the "Travel Lodge" in Sunbury, 15 minutes away. Take me there PLEASE.

1:00 am: "Mohammed" checks me in but says he can't use my credit card because it doesn't have a chip. Its 2010 buddy, not 2110, I know that's the new "thing" but this good, old fashioned black strip on the back will still work. "Do you have cash?" It was all I could do to not reach over the counter and give him a "hammer" blow to the adams apple. "NO. I DON'T HAVE CASH. Hence the credit card." He grabs "Mindy" who doesn't know what to do either. Finally I lean over and see a  swiper... just swipe it in there! "Oh, there it is." Hire the handicap.

1:30 am: Get to my room. No phone. Could this get any more difficult? Go back downstairs, "Yo Mo, where's a payphone?" "Payphone? We don't have phones here." They need a damn credit card with a chip on it for payment but they don't have TELEPHONES.

1:33 am: Crawl into bed (mattress with a sheet) with all my clothes on because its FREEZING and turn on the news. They rescued a woman buried under rubble that was still alive after a week in Haiti. I'm an ASSHOLE. I count my lucky stars and pass out.

"Smart has plans. Stupid has stories."

Off to Paris tomorrow, let the adventure continue!

P.S. I'll be posting more pictures soon :)

DAY 7: Can you spell that please?

Made my way through SOHO and Chinatown- stopped to eat at a great Italian bakery, "PRINCI." Another cappuccino and pasqualina (spinach & egg pastry). I love the Italians- clean, modern, open, exuberant... hopefully I don't change my tune in a month.

Found my way to Oxford today to stay with a lovely British couple I met in Finland. Caroline is a hypnotherapist and Bede does IT work for the Oxford Press, who prints one of my favorite books, The Dictionary! Got lost getting back to the hostel (shocking, I know) so Luigi (obese midget), Roo (baby kangaroo) & I caught a taxi to the bus stop. Bought a ticket in the machine that said BUY TICKETS HERE- got on the bus and Arthur the Asshole bus driver told me it was the wrong ticket and that I had to go buy the right one.
"Can't I just buy one from you, since you have the actual ticket machine in your lap?"
"I suppose, " Arthur says, in a put-out, I'd-rather-get-hit-by-this-bus-than-drive-it-tone.
"Gee, thanks for DOING YOUR JOB Arthur..." I fell asleep on the way only to be yelled at by Arthur, "Git a mooooove awn!" Waking me up from a deep sleep is like waking a bearcat out of hybernation- I wanted to scratch his eyes out.

An hour and a half later I arrive in Oxford and had to find my way to the Dunlop residence. Getting directions over the phone from a Brit is a real treat... it's like listening to proper ebonics. "Can you spell that please?" And then when you see the road sign and how it's actually spelled... they put the wrong emPHASis on the wrong syLABol... Finally I arrive at 9 Davenant Street and Bede has tea, biscuits and a jolly good conversation waiting for me. Such a dear man- reminds me of a tall mouse with spectacles and a tie. Caroline was in London for the evening so he cooked a feast of smoked herring, baked potatoes, steamed broccoli with a tomato mushroom sauce paired with a Carmanere vino. I love food. Not sure if you noticed... it only consumes 90% of my stories... we sat and talked about Finland and all sorts of places he's travelled- it was a great, comfortable evening.

I decided to take a bath, something I haven't actually "taken" in years. I was ecstatic to be reminded of what hot water feels like... I grabbed, what I thought was soap, and used it to shave my legs... turns out it was kitchen appliance cleaner (don't ask why it was in the bathroom), so my legs are now silky smooth with a lovely gunmetal sheen to them. SEXY. The bottom of the tub looked like someone shaved an albino gorilla. High maintinance Whitney has FLOWN out the window.

It was nice to stay in a home, in a comfy bed, with a clean bathroom (though no fluffy, Downy-fresh towel). I've realized just how much we take for granted in the States- dishwashers, hot water galore, CLOTHES DRYERS, nice, big Riedel wine glasses :) MAN ARE WE SPOILED!!!

Perhaps I should have put a DISCLAIMER on my blog... regardless:
-I'm not racist.
-I say it like I see it. There is NO filter.
-I have ZERO shame.
-I'm not a homophobe by ANY means.
-I'm a grammar nazi when I've had a good amount of sleep. I realize I've unleashed some mis-spellings and I'm more embarrassed about those than about leg hair in a bathtub (yes mom, I cleaned it.)
-I know I'm in Europe, and I'm not complaining. Like I said, I call it like I see it.
- I'm not vain. I try to talk about as many OTHER people around me as possible... I just happen to be around ALL the time.

Until tomorrow :)

DAY 6: Hostile in Hostel

Went to sleep around midnight last night only to be awoken by my new Brazilian roomies at 2 a.m. I got them back by packing and showering at 5 a.m. to get to the airport. Yes, I am an unruley bitch.

When I said I was only taking a backpack, I never really put that into the realization that this "backpack" was like carrying an obese midget on my back. Not to mention my "laptop bag" that has my camera, headphones, books, etc. etc. that I wear around the front like I'm about to give birth any moment. I will look like a body builder by June. Embarked on a fast pace waddle to the bus stop, that I just missed. Thank goodness for the taxi that was poaching for idiots such as myself... got checked in and sat in a pub with my computer, and the bar was full with people drinking Guiness! I shit you not, at 7 a.m. people were tying one on. Breakfast of champions I s'pose. Oh, and FYI, Nasty Nancy hastily informed me they don't sell chewing gum in the Dublin airport.

Flying by the seat of your pants is a blast, until you have to A. figure out where you are going to sleep that night, and B. carry a midget and a baby kangaroo around on the Tube. This is where my luck-o-te-Irish bitch-slapped me in the face. The Tube wasn't going east from the airport... awesome. So me, myself and my uncanny sense of direction had to divert every which way to get to Central London, and SOMEHOW I managed. Maybe I am learning something. Maybe.

I checked into another shatty hostel and locked my bags up, which btw costs 2 pounds EVERYTIME you want to open the tiny door... needless to say I'll be wearing the same clothes tomorrow. And won't be showering because the shower is (on a scale of mild, medium or hot) HOT in a spicy way. I'd rather give myself a sponge bath out of the sink. Oh but there's no hot water! It's mild in a freezing way. I can't wait to take a long enough shower that enables me to shave! I'll need a good hour... you boys have it soooo easy. My roomies were a mother and daughter from Denmark- better than Bango Drums from Brazil.

I'm staying right on the edge of SOHO so I got lost (on purpose) there and found a tiny Thai place. And when I say tiny, I felt like I was in a dollhouse. I looked like a praying mantis sitting on a toad stool holding chop sticks. Delicious Tom Yum soup and Red Curry sufficed for my only meal of the day. I made my way to Leicester Square and further on to Trafalgar Square. I was here in 2003, so I've begun to "refamiliarize" myself. I was waiting for Celine Dion to saunter up behind me singing "It's all comin' back, it's all comin' back to me nowww..." but I think she's in Vegas.

A writer I met this summer told me to go to the SOHO Hotel for a cocktail, so after hours of walking around, my dogs were barking and I decided it was time for a drink. I asked a policeman who was quite a cheery old chap how to get there after searching for a good half-hour, and he didn't even know... but he did tell me where the Red Light District was (we were standing on the corner of it) and NOT to go any further in. (But it would make for such a great story!) Ha, I didn't chance it. I finally stumbled upon the hotel, tucked back behind a gay bar called "Low Profile." I ordered a dirty martini in "ReFuel"  and because I've become a complete cocktail snob, I had to send it back. Who puts equal parts of dry vermouth and vodka- with NO olive brine??? The second one wasn't much better- their olives tasted like sea scallops.

Back at the hostile around 7:30 p.m., I sat on my bed to read a bit and passed out with my headphones blaring. The visions of Frank Sinatra and I dancing in my head were shattered as the Danes tromped in. Slept like shit, but caught up a bit.

A good buddy from high school (Lewis Howes) is in London and is putting on a sports networking clinic Tuesday night! Will be good to see an old friend and a familiar face. Hopefully I can find the place.

Best poster I saw today: "I've got 2,986 friends on facebook and I'm not getting shagged."

Cheerio!

Cliffs of Moher

Day 5: To serve, protect and intoxicate

Holy hangover Harry, the Irish police force knows how to party. Damn you Irish detectives, damn you. Definitely slept in today. And could’ve slept all day, but realized I was in Dublin, not Butte, so I put on my get-your-shit-together pants, one leg at a time and drug myself out the door. Fresh air helps. Found an old church with a huge pipe organ, statues and stained glass windows- the whole shebang- that has been restored and made into a bar/restaurant/night club called The Church. Catchy eh? I don’t find deals. Deals find me: a bowl of soup, fresh bread, a chicken wrap and tea all for 10 euros. Delish!

After I got a little life in me, I decided to take a bus tour to see if there was anything I missed yesterday. Turns out there’s a zoo in the “Biggest park in Europe,” rawrrr. Stopped off at the Irish Museum of Modern Art. These people are fecked ep. All you have to do is fill a pair of panty hose with cement, tie them in a knot so they look falic, and name it “A Rabbit’s Dream to Grow Fangs and Fly.” Total shit, in my opinion. Creepy, icky, weird “art.” And as an artist, I’m offended.

Back on the chilly double decker to see more cathedrals… St. Pat’s Church, St. John’s Church, Grace’s Church, Will’s Church, Jack and Karen’s Church (now that would be fun)…. and off to Kilmainham Prison. It’s the only empty prison in all of Europe- very cold and dreary. It was easy to ignore the artic temperatures because my tour guide was a DREAM BOAT. Black hair, freckles, dimples and kelly green peepers that kept winking at me… made me want to commit a crime…

Jumped off at Capel Street to fill my belly with another early bird special- this time Chinese.  Suuuuper random box of Kleenex in the middle of the table, with one of those fabric box covers… looked like lace curtains that were made into a wedding dress that got recycled into Chaun’s House décor.  You know a Chinese restaurant is safe when it’s full of Chinese people. Spring rolls and noodles with squid, crab legs and jumbo prawns… hello yum? This is 10 euros calling…

I had about 5 pots of tea today… rehydration is key.

Off to London town in the marning! 7 cappuccinos and 18 beers later, I bid lovely Ireland adieu… leaving behind a spoonful of dignity and pinch of charm. Ok, there are 8 old French toads staring at me… is that weird that they all come and rent a room in a hostel together? It ain’t a bachelor party… go to Amsterdam where that shit’s legal.

DAY 4: Double U lost in Double IN

Walked into the square today, along the famous O'Connell Street. Put an "O" in front of anything and it's Irish. Travelled roughly 10 miles on foot today...saw everything twice because I am a ra'tard and can't read a map... I should have purchased a GPS. Although that's the best part about traveling solo- you're never late and you find the best places when you're lost.
"It's far better to journey than to arrive."
It started to rain pretty hard by the end of the day- too bad there aren't any pubs I can find shelter in...

Went to the Guiness Brewery... basically paid £15 for a pint (barley+hops+water=beer. duh.)... but met lovely Teresa, manager of the sky bar... she is Joan Rivers with orangecicle hair and raspberry lip liner... what a HOOT! Great 360 view of the city...

Wandered across the city to the oldest pub in Ireland- The Brazen Head. Nothing extra special... they're all a bit drafty with 60 year old barmen behind them, but cool none-the-less. You can only handle so much Guiness and Tina Turner's "Simply the Best."

Caught the early bird special at another Indian resaurant- 4 courses for £13. Granted the first and fourth courses are naan bread. Sat next to a young couple from San Luis Obispo who thought I was crazy for travelling alone. I told them to call me in a week when they wanted to kill eachother. Hopefully this early bird doesn't get "the" worm from all this curry. P.S. If you are ever "stopped up," eat Indian and slam a Guiness...

Found the shopping district- pretty generic, high end Louis, Chanel, Hermes... not MUCH style here... leggings, Uggs, long sweaters and scarves. Blah. Coming from the girl head to toe in black. The men dress well, though I'm afraid Italy will put them to shame.... my gay-dar will really be put to the test down there...

Went back to John Gogarty's and bellied up... Pretty sure I'm done with beer for awhile after this. It took 2 blokes 10 minutes to wager whether or not I was American.
"Where you from?"
"Montana."
"No shit! My wife is from St. Louis!"
"No shit? Where'd she go to school?"
"Incarnate Word."
"NO SHIT! What's her name?"
"Joanie McKeirnen."
"NO SHIT!?!?! We played eachother in basketball!!!"
"NO SHIT!?!?!?!"
Ok you get the point... short story long, we knew eachother back in the day and she has been playing in Europe professionally for 5 years AND played in Finland the year before me! We called her (she was in Cork for the weekend) and chatted for 10  minutes.... I've missed that STL accent! So she ordered her husband John and his buddy (who had a serious speech impediment) Brian- both cops- to show me a good time. And boy did they... another "garda" was having his retirement party in a castle. Yeah. In a castle. So we hopped in a cab and acted like wedding crashers for an hour or so, until we made a scene, and headed back into town to a pub called The Quays (keys) and made fun of stupid American girls.... grand time, hilarious fellows and appreciate all their "secrets" of travelling solo (watch your back at ATM's... haha, thanks John). They asked me if I was divorced and on my Independence Tour because they never see girls sitting alone at a pub, ever. I said, "No, I'm just a loser."

Best line of the night: "Women's basketball rosters are like men's penis'. They're lying about at least an inch and a half."

Holy shit the Irish can drink!!!! Hangover ensues...

DAY 3: Oh fer facks sake

HURLING- a sport in America introduced by fraternal brothers after consuming    

    excessive amounts of alcoholic beverages.

HURLING- a sport in Ireland involving a soccer field, football goal posts, a baseball, a

field hockey stick and 15 boys that didn’t cut it in the Greek system. Stadiums packed with 80,000+ people, and these dudes don’t get paid- merely for the sake of "fun." Only in Ireland. Literally.

Did a little more castle hunting today in Durrow. Funny to see a warehouse next to a mall next to a cathedral next to a hotel next to a castle next to a pub. After about 3 hours of zigzagging across the country (yes that’s all it takes to get from the west coast to the east coast- like driving from Bozeman to Missoula, but with castles. And dragons.), we made it into the city of Dublin. Hello Guiness brewery. Hello Guiness beef stew. Hello genuis (and billionaire) that developed Guiness.

Checked into my hostel aka dorm room with 10 beds. I thought I told myself I'd jump off the Golden Gate before I had roommates OR lived in a dorm again. At least I have just one timid Portuguese nursing student instead of a Hello Kitty pussy posse. I'm not racist. It will probably fill up this weekend. And I'm certain laying on a piece of cardboard in the street would be more comfortable than this bed. All for 10 euros! Beggars can't be choosers.

Ran over to Trinity College before it closed to see THE BOOK OF KELLS!!!! The first illuminated manuscript ever made! I started having heart palpitations just walking in the door. I imagine it's like when R. Kelly met Miley Cyrus for the first time. But I didn't get the same warm sensation.... never mind. Anyway, it was a big fucking deal for me, to say the least. If I get this excited about a book, going to Italy might do me in and they'll have to send me home in a pretty wooden box.

I went to pay a visit to Andy Doyle at The Tram (college buddies partied down with him while they were here a few months ago). It took me an hour to get a mile. After a fight with the bus map, I took a cab. And I'm pretty sure Edmund was drunk because all I got was "tiger, helicopter and 8 euros Love," with a fit of laughter following each.  Andy bought me a beer and chatted me up and played fat'er for a second by telling me that if anyone touches me, don't think, just lift your knee up into his "noot seck."

Came back down town and took myself to a hole in the wall Indian restaurant. Chicken tandoori, chana pilau rice & a Bud for only 13 euros.... and I couldn't even finish. After stuffing my face I wandered around Temple Bar and found a stool at John Gogarty's. Half way through my Smithwicks, my gay-dar hit a 10 and up walks portly Alan (who ironically resembled Alan from "The Hangover"). It's uncanny that I attract more gays than straights. He pulled out his Dr. Evil Pinky that he couldn't keep out of his "mixed breed" fangs and gave me 18 or so ass-out hugs. And he stroked my shoulder every time he mentioned his ex, Kelly Ann. Guess who we talked about for an hour? "My fat'er told me don't go proposin' just so your mam can buy a new hat!" He asked me to be his wing man for the evening (for women- he doesn't know he's gay yet...) since I had apparently given him my un-fucking-available eyes. So he did his little Cher snap and we trotted out the door!

A few randoms:

-- Does every Irish fiddle player HAVE to look like James Dean? I mean really....

-- I think I should start pretending to be a food critique.

-- I will figure out these hot dogs on skates (busses) if it kills me.

-- Connolly goes way back... Owen Connallie- 1641

-- English football commentators are a SNOOZE.

-- Whitney + Directions = Oil + Water.

Until tomorrow...

DAY 2: Gal as in gallblatter.

Off to my grandmam’s old stomping grounds in Galway we went. Did a bit of “I spy with my little eye…” along the way. There is a castle constantly within sight along the coast.

Stopped at Coole Park where William Butler Yeates himself went for inspiration, i.e. The White Swans of Coole Lake… a very enchanting piece of land covered in ivy and beech trees, one of which has W.B.Y.’s initials carved in the trunk along with several other famous writers.

Stone walls are the primary property divider… after the war, the famished were put to work by building these in exchange for food. I believe with my inseam I could easily step over a majority of them- and I’m certain one of these techni-colored sweaters could heave themselves over, but it seems to keep the beef and ponies put.

Ate on Salt Hill in Galway at a little Italian bistro and wandered to the library following a margherita pizza to find my ancestors. I didn’t have the luck-o-te-Irish; nearly impossible to trace… or the librarian was being a lazy sack and hates anxious American morons like myself.

Checked out the first maker/founder of the “claddagh” ring- Dillon of Galway, 1750. Fun to see all the old wax and rubber castings… because I love wax and rubber…. “Let Love and Friendship Reign.”

I keep finding myself getting in the wrong side of the car. Tomas asks if I’d like to drive and I reply “Do you want to die today?” Saw a ten year old get out of the left side of an SUV and thought “She’s MIGHTY young to be behind a wheel…” Blond.

Drove back through the “reeks” of Burren- puke and rally has a whole new meaning… remember Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride? Well strap yourself into a french sedan and step on it… one lane roads with stone wall bumpers. Oh, and rain.  Weeeeeee! All the the hills are pure rock…

“No tree strong enough to hang a man,

No water deep enough to drown a man,

No soil soft enough to bury a man.”

Literally no man’s land, that is until you turn the corner and see that lovely Guiness sign hanging off a hot pink pub called Connolly’s. My Motha’ Land… I can hear it now… “Look at te bland ocross the bear…” if only they knew.

It’s official! The Irish are THE kindest people ON EARTH. Must be where I get it from. Tomas has not allowed me to pay for one damn thing! I threatened a gas station cashier’s permafrost locks with a 2 euro pocketknife to let me pay for his coffee. And he gave me a Nokia in case of emergencies- complete gentleman. His mot’er Mary offers me tea and homemade brown bread every 20 minutes AND she gave me a beautiful little wool scarf she made with special “heritage” knots. If sailors were ever lost/found, you could identify him by the knots used to make his scarf. Mine has blackberry knots and rope twists… its like a hairy white chocolate twizzler.

Tis Connolly is outa’ Ennis and off to Dublin in te marning. And Tomas is driving me tere… golly gee willikers, what a lad.

DAY 1: How's the crack?

"Crack cocaine?" "No. Are you having a good time?" "Ahhhh. Yes! Cheers!"

Craic- Irish term used for going/hanging out at a pub. "How's it going?"

Arrived in Shannon at 6 am Tuesday morning. Picked up by Tomas O'Grady (diiiiiiistant cousin, by marriage, 8 times removed) and took a short tour around Ennis where he lives.

Took a cat nap as I could hardly stay awake and headed to the famous Cliffs of Moher. Let me preface that the weather was SHIT. Gale force winds. Tsunami-style. Walked up the limestone stairs like a sumo wrestler, trying to keep my skin-tight jeans from blowing off. They say there are alot of suicides up there.... NO KIDDING? You may not have a choice! Scene was breathtaking... I think... through the horizontal freezing rain and blond hair in my eyes, it looked marvelous.

Stopped for some chowder at the famous O'Connors in Doolin. Spotted a "SKI THE FISH- Whitefish, Montana" bumper sticker and felt right at home.

Driving along the coast reminded me of the PCH in Cali... windy, car sick roads with rolling green hills... until I saw a herd of fat sheep with big blue asses. Apparently this is how they "brand" their sheep vs. tagging their ears. I can see it now, two farmers arguing over cornflower blue and cyan... "That's my blue sheep baaaaaatch!"

Ate dinner at Tomas' sister house (her son is the little boy from Finding Neverland... could've eaten him with a spoon) and later went to some pubs. Durty Nancy's sells the most Guiness in the county... had my first and probably last Irish Guiness. Famous last words.... Guiness to the Irish is like Gatorade to Tiger Woods. Unless he lost that endorsement too...

We meandered down to the main square in Ennis and found some local music. It was like a pick-up game jam session. It started with a harmonica, fiddle, guitar and goat-hide drum. Four beers later, a banjo, another guitar, two wooden flutes, a concertina (baby accordian) and a partridge in a pear tree had joined in.

We pub crawled to another cavern that had a bagpipe player, guitar player and VH1's Classics from the 80's on TV... twightlight zone-ish... Ordered a BULMERS- Irish Cider... basically gingerale with a buzz. I used the bathroom there, and have I mentioned that its FUCKING FREEZING here? I thought my ass was getting frost bite from the toilet seat, but I was quickly distracted by my breath that I blew on the stall door and drew smiley faces like a foggy mirror... easily entertained.

While walking to grab a taxi, Tomas asked if I would like a pack of fire... "Smokes? Heaters? Cigs? No thanks..." "No, a pack of FRIES, to eat." Ha! munchies...

A few other funny pronunciation laughs:

-- "Ya noah Whitney, tere's tree tings ta see en Ir'land: da tree C's- castles, caves and catedrals."
-- "Tere's about farty fife ar farty seex."
-- Reeks= Mountain Range
-- Unbuttoned= Drunk
-- Wind screen= wind shield
-- "Grand! Oh sure yes right"= yes
-- "Bye, bye, bye"- Good-bye

All for now... CHEERS!