It is a miracle of Hannukkah-like proportions that we made it here. We flew here last night, after racing from set to the airport train. Moments after we boarded, we spilled a full handbag-sized bag of trail mix onto the floor of the train, and no amount of foot-powered shoe sweeping on Gregory's part seemed to diminish the mess. There were cranberries and brazil nuts and raisins and pecans all the way up and down the length of the suburban rail car. When we finally arrived at the airport stop, I was so happy to escape the disapproving gaze of our fellow (British) travellers that I exited the train WITHOUT MY BAG. When I realized my blunder I screamed dramatically, "SHIT! MY BAG!!" and stuck my arm into the closing train door. And for a few beats I just stood there, waving my arm at the very same commuters who, just moments before, had happily bid adieu to what they imagined would be all of my body parts. Finally Greg pressed some kind of button, I ran in and grabbed my bag, smiled winningly at the now horrified travellers, and went on my way.
On the shuttle bus to the terminal, I said to Greg, "It's amazing we've made it this far." "Don't jinx us," he replied, then promptly banged his head on a metal pole.
After riding on every train, plane, bus and subway in Europe we finally made it to our hotel. What a dump. The place smells like strawberry cleanser and sweat. There is no bathroom on our floor, and the bed looks like a nice place wait out heroin withdrawal. But there is a small terrace and a view of Sacre Cour from our room, and I am more than happy to concede a few comforts for that.
Ah, Paris. I am so happy to see you again.