Hijacking Geri's story

I know what you're thinking...my life is warped enough that I shouldn't need to hijack someone else's story for my own cheap amusement but, to quote our favorite spinach-eating sailor who was gamely quoting scripture, "I yam what I yam." At my high points and my low, I can always turn to Popeye for guidance and inspiration.

I'm grateful that my friend Geri doesn't blog because the five faithful readers that I currently have would immediately declare mutiny and set sail upon the sea of stories spun by my talented pal. I am not even remotely taking credit for this story, though I wish I could. The Seinfeld episode where poor Kramer, lacking foresight, sells his life-stories to J. Peterman taught me a valuable lesson about copyright infringement pertaining to personal anecdotes.

A poor sleeper on a regular night, Geri reported that a recent incident drove any hope of dreamland away as she strained her ears to decipher the demonic voice that infiltrated the darkness of her bedroom.  The words,"Kill you, Geri," wound their way to my tired friend who was immediately stricken, paralyzed with fear. When her hammering heartbeat resumed its normal pace, Geri began the process of reasoning her worries away. Employing Dickens, she decided there was more "gravy than grave" to the haunting voice that invaded her bedchambers and soon settled into the complicated process of snoozing.

"Kill you, Geri," jolted her awake again. Chilled with fear, my friend moved slowly across her room to seek the strong solace of her husband who was enjoying some late-night television downstairs. He courageously cleared their room of drawer-dwelling demons, under-the-bed boogie-men and closet corpses before he effortlessly fell asleep. Sleep continued to evade his wife. "Kill you, Geri," the voice whispered. Geri whimpered. Greg wheezed.

Dawn was long in arriving. Exhausted, Geri didn't hear the alarm clock go off. Checking the time, she noticed something strange. Suddenly, an automated voice spoke, "Change batteries." Relief washed over her as she realized that she hadn't actually been slated for certain death. Responding to her account, Geri's friends celebrated her good-fortune while lamenting her lack of hearing ability. I was particularly grateful because, as usual, nothing interesting had happened to me today and my semi-loyal fan-base of five was wavering. This would be my sacrificial offering to sooth the demands of fickle blog followers.

Silly Rabbit, recess is for kids

Recess weather is back! Wonderful for a brief brain-break or a way to rapidly work off some excess energy. My favorite reason for recess is, pure and simple, unadulterated extortion. Don't feel like completing math problems one through sixteen in a timely fashion? Fine...no recess for you. Can't shut your mouth for more than fifteen seconds at a time? No problem...no recess for you. Are you unbending another paperclip? Guess what...no recess for you. Looking at me funny? NO RECESS FOR YOU!!!

So there I was, ready to break in a new season of recess fun (having had to corral in my over-eager kids, who apparently had forgotten how to walk even semi-quietly in a line so we had to practice...twice), when a disturbing playground-associated announcement came over the pa system. "Attention," our principal said in a solemn tone, "a man-eating mother rabbit and her babies have taken residence under our playground picnic table. Proceed with caution."

I ushered my fourth graders back into our classroom to provide explicit instruction about maintaining a safe and respectful distance from wildlife. Although fond of loopholes, ten-year-olds appreciate established expectations. Exactly how far away do we need to be? Four feet? Five feet? Can we lean in? Fourth graders also are the master of the "What if...?" scenario. "What if the bunny charges us," Nick T asked worriedly. "What if it has rabies," another worrier wondered.

A quieter line of kids headed out once more for the playground. Catching a glimpse of the taped-off picnic table area, set off like a cartoon crime-scene, my children charged. Standing the required four feet away, the students saw a mound of fluffy gray fur and began wailing, convinced that a hawk had maliciously murdered their playground pal. Combining my vast knowledge of hamsters and guinea pigs with my innate ability to make things up at the drop of a hat, I quickly reassured my mourners that the pelt pile before them was indicative of a mother bunny using her soft downy-undercoat to line her nest for the babies. I glanced surreptitiously about for the felonious flying fiend but mostly believed my own trumped-up tale.

So, for those anti-recess advocates out there, who believe that seat-time is the best remedy for knowledge acquisition, let this be a lesson to you. A blend of fact and fiction, our afternoon  was filled with wildlife safety lessons, observation, speculation, and evidence-based learning. I told you recess was wonderful.

Bros & Broads Abroad Board the Plane Part 2

"I'm heading home, I'm heading home, tell the world that I'm heading...home." --J. Cole's "I'm Coming Home"

Our battle-plan was set and the strategy was clear. Divide and conquer (kind of). We were to be dispatched in three waves upon the airport (Which is now pronounced with an angry French accent followed by a spitting ~t of disgust). I was to be en pointe as part of the pivotal first wave with a four-member crew in the middle followed by Syd's group, holding up the rear. "I can't hold up the rear," the trip's running joke explained, "It's too heavy."

We bid a fond adieu to the Hurlburts at that hell-hole also known as the Hyatt and took two exact same taxis to the airport, carrying the exact number of passengers, each bearing the exact number of  suitcases yet one was charged twenty-seven euros while the other taxi charged forty-two. Well, Monica was not having ANY of that, flashing her "French hands" all over the place but, as time was of the essence, she had to make do with making him pay emotionally. Our taxi unanimously voted me their group leader accompanied by a quote that I had validated and stamped by a notary. "Amy's the best we've got," they admitted with some resignation but still...

Melody made friends while we stood in the interminably long lines at the terminal and I tiredly eavesdropped as she described her San Franciscan adventures of living among the gang-bangers. I interrupted, "My-load-ie! Your life could be a TV movie! We could call it "My-load-ie & The Gangbangers!" Tired, I cracked myself up. "Never mind, My-load-ie. It sounds too much like a porn title."

There was a brief blunder getting our tickets where Michelle Reding threatened to throw a great big ol' American fit and another slight snafu when Morgan was pulled out of line and told she could board the aircraft as long as there was an extra seat (Group Leader Dee made a big deal about sacrificing her own seat, if necessary...show off) but eventually, our frontal assault of fourteen all successfully boarded. Or...at least I think they did (totally kidding, Kim Stoffer, if you're reading this...your baby girl is safe and sound).
Cierra and I played a strategic game of Seat Swap to get to one another. She was the clear winner as she seat swapped three times to my two. We looked glumly at the posted nine hour flight time and then kept encouraging one another by saying, "Look! Time is practically flying by...ahhhh-ha-ha-ha-ha!" Speaking of "time flying," Sydney besmirched the good name of "Mosiman" irrevocably on the European continent when she asked if "The Concorde" was the plane that was faster than time. The shuttle went silent.

Cierra and I just did a little seat dance because we're down to three hours before we land in Atlanta. She has a terrible habit of only watching 2/3s of all of her (questionably appropriate) in-flight movie selections. She also entertained me by singing Sponge Bob songs for the last hour of our flight which just made me wish that the ride could be even longer. Despite the little glitch at the end, this has been a wonderful trip. I thoroughly enjoyed getting to meet this extraordinarily positive and resilient band of travelers. I will always treasure sharing this trip with my amazing daughter. Thank you so much to Lauren and Sarah for your hard-work, patience, and good-humor in planning, implementing (and, in the end, salvaging) a trip that we will remember (in a good way) for the rest of our lives. Amy out.

Bros & Broads Abroad Board the Plane Part 1

Unceremoniously booted from our plane yesterday, our little band of broads and brothers invaded the airport, planting our territorial flags throughout the terminal. Even as hope diminished, we held on to the bitter end-- knowing that, even though we may have lost the battle, we would win the war. Yes, we suffered some sizable losses such as disrupted movies, Kaitlyn's eight Euro tube of Crest Whiting ("I regret that I have but one tube of toothpaste to give for my country," she bravely declared at customs), the unnecessary ingestion of powerful sleep medication ("Huh...uh...are we already there," one of the group asked groggily as she was guided gently off our broken plane). Another brave patriot fought her way back on board, vowing to "Leave no book behind!"

The next battle, later to become known as "The Suitcase Skirmish," rivaled the Hundred Years War in duration. It was psychological warfare of the worst kind as we watched the carousel revolve maddeningly for hours bearing unclaimed luggage. Our soldiers faltered and fell, one by one, bodies littering the floor waiting, waiting, waiting for our belongings to emerge from the point of origin, spewed out from the bowels of the broken beast. We did what we had to in order to survive and we won't apologize. Many a song will be sung in remembrance of the sacrifices of this day. Not a single (flight-sized approved) toiletry item was lost during the heroic retrieval campaign.

"Stranded at the airport...branded a fool...what will they say...Tuesday at school (except for Dee who returns on Monday: ha ha ha)"  ~Grease

Our suitcase-sniffing carry-on canine, Blalock, on the hunt for our missing baggage.

To maintain our spirits (and increase our cash flow), Morgan and I began wagering on the revolving luggage. We fearlessly threw our euros down ("Mom," Sydney informed me, glancing at my bet, " that's a pence.") and rooted loudly for our favorites. "It's black Samsonite in the lead," the announcer chanted excitedly, "followed closely by Owen's flowered-but-still-somehow-manly soft-sided suitcase! But wait," the announcer said, his voice rising, "There's Monica's over-packed green luggage making a move...no...no....no, it exploded, folks, and it looks like an Arial cup took out one of Dee's wheels! There's a yellow flag on the field as a French luggage-unloader takes his fiftieth cigarette break. The race will resume when l'additione has finally been delivered at the cafe where he leisurely enjoyed his third crepe of the afternoon."

Having finally gathered our wits and our wardrobe, we bid a sad farewell to the little refugee family who huddled together, waiting, with lost, empty eyes, for their stroller to appear.  "Mom, they're like Fival's family in An American Tale," Sydney whispered as, while clutching her infant, the mother waved an embroidered handkerchief in our departing direction. Our small battalion shuffled off to the shuttle where I inexplicably switched accents. "Aunt Julie, lass," I brogued, "be a lamb and let this fine young man pass." This, of course, inspired another round of singing:

"Aunt Julie didn't fly over the ocean; Aunt Julie didn't fly over the sea; Aunt Julie didn't fly over the ocean, cuz she's stuck here in Paris with me."  ~Bring Back My Bonnie

The next military installment occurred during what became known as "The Hardship at the Hyatt." Determined to enact vengeance on our enemy, I embarked on a pen-acquisition campaign of epic proportions. Cruelly separated in double-occupancy rooms with king-sized beds, plush robes, and a telephone by the toilet, our group was then sparsely fed a buffet that only contained approximately twenty-five different choices. Poor Monica had to heap her dozens of dessert selections onto a teeny-tiny plate which is obviously a blatant violation of the Geneva Convention. We stared at the hotel's offering of a small chocolate molded coffee cup filled with a berry mixture with revulsion as it obviously had been poisoned. Such cruelty. How were we to endure these bleak conditions?

Meanwhile, oblivious to our suffering, our leaders were living it up in the hot tub, getting luxurious massages and gobbling Godiva chocolate. You would have thought that they would be tirelessly e-mailing the travel agency until the wee hours of the night (as the hotel's wi-fi was down due to the rash of pilgrims who arrived simultaneously at their door), agonizing over difficult choices as we faced the travel challenges of a major holiday week-end, patiently answering the worried concerns of the group (over and over and over again) all the while battling against the crushing migraine that accompanies such a situation. But no...they were too busy getting their nails done to be concerned with the likes of us. It was obvious that if we were going to get out of this, we would have to do it ourselves. "What room number are we again," I asked Monica for the thousandth time as the elevator let us out on the wrong floor, "We need to construct  plan."

A bunch of broads broken down abroad (The bros are broken down too but won't admit it): Letchworth...left behind (the series)

When last we left Amy Mosiman, she was sporting a see-thru blouse in Paris and blaming Lauren for not including that particular clothing item on the "restricted" packing list. Later that day, she was elbowing her way through the hordes of humanity to view "The Mona Lisa." Accompanied by Sydney and her friends, Renae and Jackie, she then set about photographically re-creating (and occasionally, even improving upon) the great works of art of the world. When she wasn't busy constantly

removing Renae's hands from the marble statues or mediating heated debates about whether their elevator was actually traveling "up" or "down," Mrs. Mosiman was using Jackie as a compass to locate the "sortie." Not to criticize, but the Louvre seems unnecessarily large.

Notre Dame was impressive and the site of my second near-miss pick-pocketing altercation. In the plaza, a woman with a clipboard approached me to ask if I would like to participate in a survey. Wary and watchful, I was immediately suspicious. "Non," I answered briskly, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. A few minutes later, we watched her being questioned by the police. Notre Dame was also the location of another public urination spectacle.

And then today dawned, bright and hopeful. Uncle Denny (who became family when we learned he had 400mg Ibuprofen at the ready) heroically helped unload a truck that was blocking bus access. "He is so strong," someone in the crowd of admirers was heard to say, "Like John Wayne." "Yeah," another voice chimed in, "but he's sensitive too. He's the Michael Landon of his time."

After several near-death traffic experiences that apparently are the norm in Paris, we made it to the busy airport. We made our way through countless lines (real ones...not the imaginary ones that we were encouraged to form at one museum) and began the bonding process so familiar to travelers. There was "Buffalo Bill" sporting a baseball cap, Lady with an Australian/New Zealand accent with the gaping holes in her button-up blouse, Cute French Woman heading to Mexico, and Middle-aged Lamar Burton. These would be the key players who would share our moments of triumph ("Did I hear someone say free sandwiches?") and moments of despair ("What do you mean, The Pepsi isn't refrigerated?").

After arguing with Sydney whether the plane was actually moving or not (see similarly-themed aforementioned elevator argument), I was happily immersed in watching "Frozen" as the pilot prepared for lift-off. "Are you prepared, Phillipe?" "Roger, Roger." Unfortunately, our left engine didn't feel prepared and after performing a lengthy dry crank-shaft practice run which sounded quite painful, it was determined that we would be happier back in the airport. Naturally, I was displeased at this rude disruption of my movie but you know me. I prefer to suffer in silence.

Having been on the plane for some time, Sydney was a bit disoriented when we disembarked and was quite impressed that I could lead her, without hesitation, to the restroom. "How did you know where it was," she asked admiringly. I didn't want to burst this illusion of my new-found navigational skills so I didn't explain that we'd never veered from our original boarding gate. Her admiration was short-lived (as always) when, moments later, I became trapped in a bathroom stall and went ape-sh#t crazy, rattling the lock, throwing myself bodily against the door and swearing like a sailor.

Take note of  the room-temperature Pepsi

The "feed the savage beast" free sandwich line was comprised of an interesting assortment of characters. There was the nut who elbowed her way to the front like she was going to see "The Mona Lisa" in order to confirm the existence of free sandwiches, the loon who organized a group of authentic French people as judges for a round of "Who has the best accent," a crazy person who brought out an animatronic dachshund to delight (or, in some cases, disgust) the crowd, and an enraged passenger who was very unhappy about her room-temperature Pepsi.

After I was done drinking my room-temperature Pepsi, I joined in a lively card-game of Spoons (the French edition). Using stir-sticks as spoons and altering the rules to accommodate the loss of a 7 and the anticipated loss of a 3 (because it featured a dappled

dachshund on the front), our violent group engaged in a loud bout of diving, wrestling and stabbing until only two remained. Fortunately, I out-weighed poor Melissa by a good 50 pounds so I came away the clear and humble victor. It was at this point that we learned our fate: canceled. What was I going to do about "Frozen?" The airline was unable to offer me any assurances about whether or not the hotel would feature my interrupted film. This was unacceptable. I have never been treated so poorly.I spit on them: pew pew.

The two hours spent, hypnotized by the luggage carousel, requires its own blog post. Suffice to say, I trounced Morgan in the betting pool, learned that yelling "Hey, I see the tool bag" can be interpreted to mean either the suitcase or the person, and spent a lot of time adapting theme-related songs. We'll try this again tomorrow. As I said to Jonathan, our well-dressed French concierge who fixed Sydney and Cierra's "broken" air conditioning by explaining how to turn a switch to "on,""Merci bye-bye" (Insert an award-winning French accent here, please).

Bros and broads abroad: Letchworth sings "Louis Louis" at Versailles

"I don't know what to wear," lamented Monica this morning, digging through the spill-over of her suitcase. I watched as she pulled piles and piles of shirts from the depths and wondered how many wardrobe changes we were going to be experiencing today. Meanwhile, my non-chafing pair of jeans can now stand independently without me and I sadly discovered that I was a shirt short of returning home. Alas, I would have to purchase a souvenir shirt for Thursday. "I could loan you a shirt," Monica offered selfishly. "Why don't you just go buy something," I snapped, throwing her Paris potholder at her.

First on the agenda today was the Musée d'Orsay. It's crammed full of nifty art. Sydney and I try really hard to properly appreciate art but she's spending most of her time looking for a snack kiosk and I'm critiquing the paintings. "I would definitely crop the unnecessary landscape off the top of this one," I explained to Sydney after we finished arguing about the central focus of two antlered deer in battle. The bottom deer's tongue was protruding with its eyes dilated. "I would name this The Death Blow," I said to Sydney as we tried to stand intelligently in front of it. "Its tongue wouldn't stick out unless it was dead," Sydney responded, rather pompously. "Well, why do you think the deer's tongue is out then?" I retorted, "I don't believe they go around teasing neener neener neener to one another as they prance about the forest." We decided to agree to disagree and moved onto another painting. "Look," I cried, excited to recognize one,
"It's Whistler's Mother! Do you think it's real?" Realizing suddenly that I'd asked a stupid question, we hurried on. Next, we stood before a Van Gogh. "I'm no Van Gogh," I modestly admitted as we stood before a small painting that we'dentitled La Portrait de Ugly Enfants, "but, except for their hideous faces, I could have totally drawn that." Feeling culturally superior to everyone else, we decided to leave so as to give them a chance to feel smart too.

Lunch turned out to be a painful reminder of my plateful of prosciutto as I left Sydney to bumble her way through the ordering of my beautiful cheese and tomato bruschetta so I could snag a table in the busy restaurant. I was devastated when she presented me with a cheese, tomato and prosciutto bruschetta. I fared better than fellow room-mate, Melody who was excitedly eating her dessert when her beloved niece Cierra upturned her water glass. I watched as Melody sidled up to me on the sidewalk like a cowboy. "Cierra flooded my flambé," she cried. We returned to our designated meeting spot near the sculpture of an elephant that we named Horton. Sydney and I sat on the ground against a wall next to Dana as our group took pictures as he held up sign reading "One Euro." I smiled as his wife walked by and scowled at him, realizing that Brad would have the utmost empathy for Lauren but would also appreciate the balance that humor brings to the experience.

In the afternoon, we headed off to the Château de Versailles, the magnificent palace of the Sun King, Louis XIV. Lauren had made a casual reference to herding cows but I didn't understand her meaning until I was crammed into the crowds of people touring the rooms. A closet claustrophobic, I found myself shuffling my feet forward, centimeters at a time, suffocated by the stench of humanity. Even at that excruciating pace, Monica happily snapped shots of everything. "Oooo, that's pretty," snap snap. "Oooo...look at that," snap snap. "Look, Amy," she shouted, showing me the camera she's had for the past three years, "I just realized the viewing screen flips around to make it easier to take pictures." Snap, snap. As I continued shuffling my way desperately to an exit, I suddenly felt a subtle presence in my pocket. Thrilled and frightened to finally encounter the elusive pickpocket that I'd been warned about, I eased around to find that I was being pick-pocketed by a baby. After that traumatizing experience (you're just never the same when you've been mugged), I sought other ways of distracting myself lest I start screaming uncontrollably. Checking out one of the bedrooms (snap snap), I yelled over the crowd, "Ya'll think this is good? You should see Barbara Mandrell's house." A man who was squished up next to me on my right side turned to talk to me. "Really? You're going with Barbara Mandrell? I could see Dolly Parton..." "Who's Barbara Mandrell," Sydney asked, fanning herself with the map that wasn't useful for anything else. "My new friend and I sang a round of "Sleeping Single in a Double Bed" which I thought was wonderfully ironic when we finally spotted the exit sign. We ran out only to find, to our horror, that it re-routed us back through the palace. "I despise Versailles," I shouted, secretly delighted with the rhyming nature of the situation.

Back in we went (snap snap) until we were finally cast out into the gardens where we lay on the 8 Euro admission grass. Face down, I asked Monica her opinion of the most lady-like position of my feet. "Don't you think it's more dignified to have your feet pointing in the same direction," I asked, my voice muffled by the 8 Euro grass, "rather than look like a slob with my feet splayed out in opposite directions?" I demonstrated both positions for her but she really didn't have a lot to say regarding the sophistication of my prone, face-down position in the 8 Euro grass. Eventually, we would go our separate ways.

Monica, to bike about the gardens while Syd and I huddled against a wall like refugees and slept. You know what they say, "When in Rome..." Actually, though, I almost died in Versailles when the petite touring train entered the plaza I was crossing. Not realizing that it was doing a turn-about, I moved to get out of its way and it followed. I quickened my pace, but the train continued to bear down, chasing me. Frantic, I screamed out in French-accented English, "I don't know what to do!" Happy ending: Sydney grabbed me and pulled me to safetywhile the crowd cheered and the driver laughed and waved. Our group met at King Louis XIV's statue. Out of pure desperation, her eyes unbearably dry, Sydney used the cap of our giant water bottle that we've been lugging around to wash off her contact. Observing this process, her friend Owen, who looks more French than the French, pestered her with concerns about health and wellness. "I don't think this is a good idea," he insisted as Sydney dunked her contact like a local washing her laundry in the Ganges. "Wait," Owen shouted, suddenly inspired as, with great excitement, he dug in his bag, emerging with eyesight-saving saline. "You might have tried to remember that a little sooner," Syd said, thanking him.

We loved the double-decker subway that runs to and from Versailles. On the way there, a roving band of accordion players serenaded us, stumbling on "Oh, When the Saints Come Marching In." Sydney, Melody and I happily joined in. As the song came to an end, we were quite insulted when they requested payment as we had thought it was a spontaneous jam session and that they had played for us for the pure love of our singing. Bubble busted...snap snap. To pass the time, Syd and I reviewed some of the pictures we'd taken so far on our trip, We re-encountered the shot of the bee I had originally named "Frank N. Bee." "Where were we when you took that," Sydney asked. "Norman-bee," I said tiredly, before we dissolved into over-tired titters. Good-bye Versailles.

Exhausted, we were glad to return to the hotel. "You know what I love," Monica asked she inserted the card key, "coming back to a clean room." Resting briefly before our evening tour, we watched as Monica enthusiastically enjoyed a super-stuffed crepe wrap. "This is so-oo good," she said, unable to contain her emotions or her wrap as meat dropped like confetti all over the floor. "So much for rose petals," I remarked as she scrambled to pick them up, "you may have started a new trend."

Our final stop of the evening was the Tour Montparnasse, the tallest skyscraper in Paris. Sydney and I, tired of lugging half of our belongings all over Paris, had left our backpack at the hotel. As we approached our destination, Monica handed me a bottle of water, "I could feel that you were thirsty," she said. Wow, I thought, gulping down half of it, talk about intuitive. My roomies, Sydney and I were beside ourselves with excitement when we summited the building, realizing that we were actually going to get to view the Bloody Moon. This is a rare lunar eclipse where the moon is completely hidden in the Earth's shadow and the only way that the sun's light can get to it is by reflecting off the Earth's atmosphere. Sydney and I scored some chairs rail side on the indoor platform and just enjoyed looking at Paris, lit-up. A family happened by, the kids (invading my personal space bubble) asking where the Eiffel Tower was and their mom answering that it was probably on the other side of the building. They walked away, leaving me impressed with the effectiveness of language immersion. "Sydney," I boasted, "I understood EVERYTHING that they were saying." "I would hope so, Mom, they were speaking in English." 

We jammed our group into the elevator for the ear-popping ride down. "I fell into a burning ring of fire," we sang, "I went down, down, down and the flames went higher." Back to the hotel. Back to bed. Back at it tomorrow. Snap,snap.

A bunch of broads abroad (wait, there are a few guys too!): Letchworth's Triumphant Tour of Paris

When we first threw open the doors to our balcony, my friend Monica closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Paris," she finally said, "smells like chicken." Paris invades, assaults, intoxicates and assures the senses all at once. The scent of lilacs lessens the rising stench of the subway. Blaring horns accompany street music. No one can hurry past the mother dog and her pups set out as emotional bait on the sidewalk but neither will they be blackmailed into contributing a coin. It is Paris. Get going or get out of the way.

This morning, our lively band of travelers headed to the Arc de Triomphe. Sydney, freshly-emerged from her casted ankle, and I were inadvertently ushered into the "stairs" line rather than the more sensible "elevator" line. Syd followed me on my winding and rapid ascent of the Arc. At one point, I thought she would have to lean a shoulder against my rear to propel me forward as I began to slow and stagger, my heart sending out frantic SOS signals. I spotted a few members of our group that had taken refuge in a small alcove and, without hesitation, dove into it. 284 total steps later, I breathlessly attained the summit. Continuing with our video travel-logue, Sydney and I began educating our viewers about the background of the Arc de Triomphe but fatigue (and stupidity) had us incorporating the back-story of Suzanne Collin's Hunger Games instead.

As instructed, we went to a lower level to meet with our group. I was lounging on a concrete couch when my friend Mickey approached. I directed her toward the restrooms and watched her instead walk the narrow platform situated between the men's and women's rooms toward the mirrored wall. "I guess she's going to check her make-up first," I thought, not predicting that she was going to walk right into the wall. What is it with Wyoming County residents and mirrored walls? Sydney could hear me laughing rooms away.

We did some shopping on the Champs Elysées. Monica had asked to be put on a gentle consumer policing plan so Sydney and I chaperoned her visit to the Paris Disney Store. Disney is a drug to moms like poor Monica who have two-year-olds with the soundtrack to "Frozen" already committed to memory. "That's too big for Sophia," I said harshly as a dazed Monica held up one adorable Disney-themed outfit after another. "She'll grow into it," she told me, her eyes glazed over. I knew I'd lost her. "Let's go, Sydney," I said, unable to watch my friend spiral so out-of-control. I called out to Monica as she continued her maddened search, "Remember, if it doesn't say Paris then it isn't really special...you could buy it anywhere...anywhere...where....ere...ere." When we were reunited with Monica later, she happily showed us her treasures. I shook the cup emblazoned with the mermaid Ariel on it in her face. "This isn't even remotely connected to Paris," I said accusingly. Shamefaced, Monica replied, "But I can tell her it was BOUGHT in Paris." "What are you going to do, write "Paris" on it in Sharpie marker?" Pleased that I had solved her problem, Monica brightened considerably until she realized that I'd enrolled her in a Disney de-tox program.

Our next destination, Sacré Cœur, is located on the highest point in the city. Translation: lots of steps. The steps, combined with the view of Paris, took my breath away. Given the choice of tackling the nearly 400 steps of the basilica or rest, Sydney and I immediately toppled over. After a sufficient recovery time, we rallied, joining Monica and Alicia for a 9 euro dessert to earn our way to the potties. As I was enjoying my world-wind, restroom tour, I failed to notice a crack in the seat. Where my sense of sight failed me, my tactile abilities kicked in. "Yeow," I hollered, the painful pinch launching me to my feet. Later, as our group was making our way to the metro, we heard the familiar complaints about the bathroom facilities. "It's such a pain in the butt," we heard one person remark. I'll say.

A bunch of broads abroad (and some men too): Letchworth takes on the Tower

My room-mates and I have been happily reunited on a 2nd floor triple with a light-up tub. Let me write that again: a light-up tub! My friend, Geri had given me a bon voyage present as I left the school on Wednesday, containing, among other things, bath salts. "When am I ever going to use those," I thought to myself, snarfing down her bag of Snickers miniatures on the bumpy bus-ride to the airport. Oh. In my magical light-up tub! Geri's a genius. Adding to my growing list of ailments which includes blisters, bruises, and slight sprains is a mild chaffing problem caused by my pre-trip purchase of "Paris" pants. "How do I look," I asked Sydney this morning. She paused before answering...not a good sign. "I know you want to be comfortable," she said diplomatically, "but they're a little roomy." And it turns out that walking a ka-zillion miles in roomy jeans is NOT a good thing but a good soak in the (light-up) tub eased that discomfort as well.

Our first stop of the morning was the Palise Garnier Opera House. Turns out that culture was lost on most of us as we took turns walking regally down the grand staircase and then racing from balcony to balcony to wave at each other. Coming around a corner, I was startled by a mirrored wall but not as startled as one of our trip planners who was so occupied in explaining the different features of the Opera House that she just about walked straight into the mirror. So inspired by the Palise Garnier was author, Gaston Leroux, that he was compelled to write "The Phantom of the Opera" which included both the 7-ton chandelier that, in 1896, crashed from the ceiling and horrifically killed an audience member and a scene where a character walks out of a mirror. So really, if Sarah was going to re-enact a scene from the play, I'm glad she choose the mirror instead of the chandelier.

The costumes on display at the Palise Garnier were breath-taking and, in some cases, moderately disturbing. Syd and I quietly considered an armored bodice with raised nipples for several moments before I voiced my frustration. "From about age 10, you spend your entire life trying to hide them and then they go and do something like this?"

 We briefly attended a Palm Sunday Mass at the Eglise de la Madeleine. As we walked in, the choir was singing and then the priests began the lengthy recitation of The Passion. In French! Very cool. Then we tried  (and failed) the culture thing again as we browsed the Musée Rodin. Sydney and I got into a small altercation as we observed The Thinker or "La Penseur." Obviously, this sculpture caused Sydney and I to be deep in thought. I speculated that The Thinker was considering what outfit he'd like to wear for the day. Sydney, on the other hand, made the literary connection between Rodin and "Harry Potter." "Did you realize that Dumbledore's Pensieve meant thoughts," she asked. "Uh, yeah," I replied, wondering what The Thinker would think about my Paris pants. "And you never TOLD me," she accused. "Oh, quit getting so worked up and pose," I ordered, raising my camera for the shot of Sydney Tebowing next to The Thinker before we gave up thinking to go get a snack.

From there we went to Les Invalides to view the interred tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte. We were a little tired so I hope that the emperor would forgive our somewhat flippant nature at this time. With elbows resting along the concrete wall circling over the ruler's sarcophagus, Sydney asked her friend Renae if she knew the location of Napoleon's armies, while I scrambled for the camera to capture her reaction. "I don't know," Renae replied, "Where?" "In his sleevies," Sydney answered while Renae looked confused for a moment before comprehension dawned.

Tired, our little group retired to the chapel for some reflective prayer. Supportive and encouraging, my friends lent a kind, cathartic ear as they listened to me recount a bit about my recent health maladies. We laughed. We cried. Hearts were healed. It was a spiritually enriching experience of fellowship among women. Renewed, we exited while several members of our party were struck down with flying feathered missiles. "A bird almost hit me but I ducked," one teen reported, not understanding at first why we cracked up at her unintentional pun. 

Excitement grew as we approached the Eiffel Tower. We paused often for pictures and to continue our homemade music video production of "The Best Time of My Life" before throwing ourselves in the line to get to the top of the Tower. Like Carlo's Bakery, this was a happy, active line filled with anticipation. Our friend Alex/Cam got busted in security for smuggling hotel preserves but the good-humored security personnel allowed him to keep his contraband. We made sure that we took his dignity as he stuffed his jam back in his pockets. Lauren's brother-in-law Denny is a romantic, sensitive man with big plans for his wife for when they reached the top so naturally he consulted me about the details. I suggested poetry, rattling off several examples that he could use (William Carlos William's "The Red Wheelbarrow" can be applied to practically ANY situation). We began brainstorming appropriate songs. I dismissed Denny's suggestion of "100 bottles of beer on the wall." For some reason, he inched several people ahead of me in line which made helping him a bit more challenging so I enlisted the assistance of the twenty-five occupants of our elevator who sang him The Beatles' "All My Loving" all the way to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Dennis and I are obviously now life-long friends.

We enjoyed our top of the Tower experience and then stopped in for a potty break before heading to the elevators. "Sydney, are you still out there," I yelled from my stall. "Yes," I heard her say quietly, not thrilled with a restroom spectacle. "Use this one," I hollered, "and bring the camera."  While Sydney was busy documenting some noteworthy bathroom graffiti (although I'm not sure what everyone else in the restroom thought she was documenting), I took a spin singing and dancing with the male bathroom attendant to "Low Rider."

Like The Beatles, our group broke up (for dinner). Syd and I, becoming a bit more economically conservative ("We are NOT paupers, Mother, stop being so dramatic," Sydney snapped.), shared a supper after our table-mates launched into a complicated pantomime show for our waitress to stress the importance of being served quickly to make our boat launch appointment

and to demonstrate how much we would appreciate the free tap water rather than the 3.5 euro water that we kept accidentally ordering. Sydney' pizza was placed in front of her without incident but everyone's eyebrows went up when a dinner plate loaded with shaved deli meat landed in front of me complete with beautiful garnish (which I also ate...these are trying times). We successfully made our reservation time (apparently it doesn't take a long time to pile prosciutto on a plate and slap some parsley on top) and I managed to sleep my chaffed-self through a beautiful river cruise of the Seine. I woke long enough to see a few river rats, a disco ball hanging from an underpass, and witness a drug exchange.

On our crowded metro ride home ("Quick everyone, the port key!" I yelled as we all reached for the middle pole at the same time...if you don't get the "Harry Potter" reference, then shame on you. Stop reading this blog immediately and start reading a REAL author to catch up on the most iconic youth literary series of our time), we were serenaded by an only-slightly inebriated accordion player who accompanied us right to our stop. I tried to video tape him but Sydney, the kill-joy, wouldn't let me because she said we'd have to tip him and we're on a serious budget. I've missed some key photographic and videotaping highlights on this trip. Failed to re-enact the lugging of the luggage up to such heights that we had to chew gum, was too shocked to document the copulating crows (which would have changed the viewer rating of this blog and perhaps expanded my audience due to the illicit content), and today, missed the rats and the accordion player. You know what they say, "A picture is worth a thousand words." I should have ditched the blog on this trip and signed up for Instagram. Maybe I'd have found a way to sleep.

Two broads (and a bunch of other broads and even a few guys) abroad: Letchworth lights up Paris

I was afraid I'd gotten off on the wrong step this morning when I accidentally but enthusiastically greeted the first French person I encountered with "Guten morgen!" Seriously?!? German? Where on earth did THAT come from, for pete's sake? We toured a "small" chapel (there are no small chapels in Europe, by the way, and, for some unfathomable reason, no trash bins. Not related but just putting it out there. Actually I'm not putting "it" anywhere because I can never find a flippin' garbage can! Exhaustion setting in obviously, pardon the rant.) before preparing to leave Normandy. Sydney accompanied Monica and I up to our cozy quarters (we simply stepped from bed to bed and, should need of the bathroom arise, used the bed springs to

catapult ourselves into the tiny space.) to help us wrestle our bags down. We were doing well until one bag broke loose, careening out of control so, without thinking (obviously), I threw myself directly into the path of destruction and, as Superman could stop a speeding bullet, Amy Mosiman stopped a speeding suitcase with a now sprained finger. My sprained finger wasn't nearly as painful to deal with as my strained patience when
Monica and I toured Syd's room that she shared with her room-mates, Jenna and Becky. Her cavernous room. Her cavernous room with a fireplace and an additional sitting room, just cuz. Her cavernous room on the ground floor with no steep, winding stairs. Her cavernous room...well, you get the idea.

Awaiting the bus's arrival in the parking lot, we were treated to a classic car show. We had the kids (carefully) sit in front of the line of pristine Jaguars for an impromptu picture. Sydney triggered our automated dachshund's music button and suddenly "Low Rider" appropriately accompanied the somewhat surreal moment of teens posing on the pavement, surrounded by luxury cars, with a muted background of willows and water and shrouded cathedrals.

We're running out of things to talk about on the long bus rides apparently. Today, we spent a great deal of time contemplating the twenty-two ingredients that make up a Dr. Pepper. I voted on Brown Dye #4. Dee glared at her Aunt Julie who suggested cinnamon and nutmeg before saying, "You're not making an apple pie, Aunt Julie." The bus has been host to all sorts of lively entertainment. Our trip organizer's husband, Dana performed a wonderful comedy routine, grabbing the microphone to mimic the unintentionally funny way our Normandy tour guide had of talking. His bit, titled "Why ask a rhetorical?" went something like this: "About how many people are on this tour bus?/30! What is the freezing point of water?/32 degrees! Who is the most handsome man in the world?/Me!" We also found time to fit in a musical bus montage featuring revised lyrics set to Beauty and the Beast's "Be Our Guest." As with any great musical number, we were beset with problems. DJ kept eating our most important prop, the baguette while our friend Alex/Cam initially refused to cooperate as our little operation wasn't union-sanctioned. Many members of our group wrestled for creative control as we debated the merits of the ending clap sequence. Clap clap? or Clap clap clap? Mediation was needed and a compromise was reached when the proponents of the clap clap conceded as long as a Woo! was added as the finale. Inspired by our driver, Lumiere, whose real name was Nordine, the song was a rousing success until Lumiere turned on the radio so he wouldn't have to listen to us sing anymore.

 We arrived in Paris to a cacophony of sights and sound. The Eiffel Tower! Naked advertisements! The Arc d'Triumph! An inebriated man flopping over in the street before a good Samaritan pulled him to safety! A traffic jam! The bus was unable to maneuver to the street of our hotel so we had, as Lauren put it, "a bit of a walk."  Our Parisian hosts must have been enchanted by the thirty of us wrestling our bags behind us as we clogged up their sidewalk. Having prepared for months for this moment, I was thrilled when the kind man standing next to me at the crosswalk welcomed me to Paris in, get this, French! Again, having practiced, I was ready for this moment. "Merci gracias," I responded stupidly as the light changed and my confused friend hurried away. "Wait," I hollered, "I can do better!"

Another slight room snafu resulted in my refusing to wait my turn in the long line at the elevator that could only accommodate three passengers at a time to instead wrestle my bag, again, to the top floor. Our troubles were immediately forgotten as we threw open the French double doors and stepped out on our little balcony that overlooked the city of Paris.

We took a walking tour of Paris in the evening, Lauren leading us expertly along the famed "passage" (Not, as you might guess, a Parisian massage, but an enclosed alleyway of quaint shops), past the Louvre (where Lauren circled her student "wagons" against the onslaught of raiders wielding lasers, light-up Eiffel Tower toys and flying helicopters. She shoo-ed them away in rapid-fire French but the predators lurked nearby, ready to loot wallets), along the Seine where we saw the twinkly lights of the iconic symbol of Paris fill the sky, past Notre Dame to the Latin Quarter where we ate dinner, watched our first public urination, and fended off men who insisted on thrusting limp flowers in our noses. My suggestion for the next time it happened was to tap it like a microphone and then belt out, "Every rose has its thorn." Good night, Paris. A tout a l'heure!

Two broads abroad: Letchworth storms Normandy

I spent a leisurely morning, stretched out in my comfortable bed, catching up on my correspondence as my two room-mates scurried about. Idiots, I thought disdainfully to myself as they hurried out the door, lugging their cumbersome luggage down fifty flights of stairs. "Uh...Amy? You do know that we're suppose to be ready for the bus in fifteen minutes, don't you," asked Melody quietly, watching as my eyes popped out of my head in shock and I catapulted from my bed to race into the bathroom. Wondering where I was, Sydney soon appeared and flew into action as I shrieked at her to throw everything into my suitcase. "Were you sleeping," Syd asked incredulously as I hopped around the room on one leg, pulling on my pants. "No," I growled, frustrated, "apparently I've lived in Rapunzel's tower so long that I've started to actually believe I'm a princess." We hurried down the narrow stairs, Sydney manhandling the suitcase around the sharp corners. I breathed a sigh of relief as we boarded the bus in the nick of time and I felt tons better as, several minutes later, a few of my friends had to make the walk of shame down the bus aisle. "Oooo la-la..." their fellow passengers intoned darkly as we finally departed for the day.

After another round of customs, where I apparently appear completely harmless unlike my patient friend, Alicia who was practically molested, we transferred to the Eurostar. "I can't wait to see the fish," Sydney exclaimed giddily, unaware of the confused look crossing her teacher's face. "Sydney, what do you think the Chunnel is going to be like," Lauren asked. "Isn't it like a glass tube?" Sydney asked. "It's not an aquarium, Sydney," she laughed, "Arial won't be swimming up to see you."

Familiar with the snack trolley on the Hogwart's Express, Sydney and I waited expectantly for its arrival until we learned there was a food service car.  We stumbled through the train and joined the "que." "I'm going to order a croissant," I announced to everyone around me who were obviously fascinated by my choice. Hearing a rumor that her ham and cheese toastie was running low, Sydney hissed at her room-mate who stood in front of her in line, "Psst...Becky, order the ham and cheese toastie and I'll cut you." To impress the server, I whipped out some foreign language skills, "I'll have uno croissant, s'il vous plait." "Mom, uno is Spanish for one," Sydney corrected. "Sorry, madam, there are no more croissants," the woman said regretfully as I collapsed on the counter before scanning the crowd to see if Becky had stolen the last croissant in order to take my revenge.

My luggage almost went on a tour of Europe without me as it had been moved from the rest of the suitcases on the train. Distraught over my lost mini-Pepsis and bag of Mounds bars, I was, nonetheless, resigned to live the remainder of the trip on one pair of underwear. Lauren's husband, Dana however, gallantly dove back on to search frantically while Lauren waved her arms on the platform yelling, "Hold the train!" My suitcase packed with snacks successfully retrieved, we were again rolling on our way. The females of our group enacted a coup at the potties, taking over the men's room to handle the "overflow." Syd's doppelganger, Renae cautiously took her turn in the men's room and we got the giggles awaiting her reaction as a male passenger approached her locked door. Shamefaced, she shuffled by him as we all laughed hysterically. Turns out that they not only look alike, they also think alike as Renae later confessed her disappointment over not having seen fish in the Chunnel.

Our bus pit-stop at a gas station was the site of my and Syd's first mother-daughter altercation as we waited in line for the bakery (Yes, at a gas station). Unbeknownst to me, Syd was concentrating on verbalizing her order in French while I was busy oogling the tasty selections. We approached the counter and Syd was ordering me a croissant in French when I suddenly interrupted. "Non!" I shouted, "un pain de chocolate?" I gestured to a rectangular croissant-y looking bread with chocolate filling. "Two?" the server asked. "Oui," Sydney confirmed, glaring at me. We walked out with our treasure and she exploded, "Now I know how Dad feels!" "What?" I asked, baffled, "Why didn't you just order what you wanted?" She stopped in the parking lot and shouted at me, "I knew exactly what to say and then you bursted out with your ridiculous order and then gave her your cheeky bird-clicky noise." After gobbling up my tasty treat, I apologized for the next twenty miles.

Normandy was rough. First I took an academic hit because apparently, I missed the main point of the assault. I mean, yeah, the big, over-all goal was to defeat Hitler, but the reason behind D-Day was to take the beaches to establish impressively-engineered harbors to unload the thousands and thousands of men, vehicles and equipment necessary to achieve said big goal. "Where was I when this had been explained to me in high school," I wondered, "Was that the week I was addicted to Marlboro Menthol cigarettes?" They had purposely sunk seventeen ships, hauled harbor-construction apparatuses across the ocean, and set up a giant floating dock capable of handling tons of tanks to allow a steady stream of land forces to, again, achieve the big goal. It was quite a blow to my scholarly self-esteem.

The American Cemetery assaulted our emotions. Arlington can be a bit difficult to take in but this was worse as I looked at grave after grave recording back-to-back dates. 1944...1944...1944...1944...I watched waves of white crosses, realizing that they'd died within days, hours and minutes of one another. Over 9,000 of them.

There was a lot of walking (and in Alicia's case, one memorable bout of falling as she flopped off a sidewalk curve, folding like a cheap umbrella and then leaping up like a gymnast who had just stuck her landing). Omaha Beach. Utah Beach. Gun remnants that had a range of eleven miles. Claustrophobic bunkers.  Great divots out of the earth where a shell, several shells, hundreds of shells had fallen. Comfort seeing my flag on foreign soil. Pride watching it lowered, folded, and layed to rest. Gratitude to those who remained behind.

Emotionally exhausted, we made our way to our hotel for the night. Again, Monica, Melody and I faced an impressive number of stairs and again, we rose to the challenge. Panting for breath, I sat on the bed (as the room was so stuffed, there was no actual floor room) to inspect the safety features. Apparently, in the event of a fire, those of us confined to the top level are instructed to cram a towel beneath the door, open the window and scream for help. I wondered if we should run a drill but it took so long to figure out how to turn on the lights (room card inserted) that we discarded the idea.

Waiting for seating for dinner in the vacant hotel lobby, the outdoor video monitoring system flashed on and we saw our friend, Julian, stranded outside. I looked around to see if I was being watched (as, ironically, I watched Julian) and then pushed the button to speak to him. "Why are you by yourself, Julian," I barked at him. "I can't get in," he complained, peering too closely into the camera, "I have permission. What do I do?"
"Stand on one foot," I instructed helpfully before rattling off the entry code and watching him disappear into the building.

Dinner...yay. It had been so long since I'd heard that glorious word on this Coke-loving continent that I almost missed it. "Amy," Monica poked me, "didn't you hear him? He said Pepsi." Would my weeping never end? Tears of joy swept down my face as I ordered el grande Pepsi. Also happy to get a Pepsi, Sydney didn't bother to correct my "French." Crepes and creme brulee later, I was ready to master the stairs to head to bed. Tomorrow...Paris.

Two broads abroad, Letchworth's last day in London

How is it even possible to pack so much into one day when all I do back home is watch back-to-back-to-back re-runs of "How I Met Your Mother?" This morning seems so far away as we were greeted with a very un-American-style continental breakfast. I once felt like I'd won the lottery at a motel that sported "Hostess Twinkies" as the main component of their advertised "continental breakfast." Fresh , warm croissants (NOT the Pillsbury version) with real butter with waitress service beside. Note to self: When ordering scrambled eggs in London, respond to the polite inquiry of "Would you care for tomatoes as well?" with a "no" as you will receive tomato puree with your eggs. My brown hard-boiled egg brought to mind my time in Nantucket but they'd been cooked Deb Mehlenbacher-style, who enjoys torturing me by leaving the yolk in a gelatinous state, so needless to say, I only nibbled the white part.

We mastered the metro (the Tube) and headed first to Buckingham Palace to let the Queen know we'd arrived. On the lovely walk to Westminster Abbey, we encountered road signs that inspired inappropriate giggling among the more immature of us:  "No humping next 1/4 mile." Naturally, our attention was immediately drawn to a pair of crows copulating right next to us. Fortunately, Westminster Abbey commanded a more solemn tone. Sadly, re-enactments of Princess Di's bridal walk down the aisle are frowned upon and I didn't dare try to sneak a pic of William Wilberforce's memorial for my favorite little guy, William Sigmon. Syd and I considered rubbings instead but noticed a marked lack of humor so we tried to maintain a bit of dignity during our visit.

While waiting for everyone to assemble for the next leg of our day's journey, people headed over to a nearby

Duran Duran look-alike pictured here, in yellow

snack vendor. "No, Sydney," I said firmly, "we don't need to eat every single sec...oh my gosh, they have Nutella waffles! Get over there!" From Westminster Abbey, we headed to the National Gallery to scamper over the massive lion statues. The teens in our group fearlessly climbed up the sculptures and I watched with amusement and consternation as two of our girls, Cierra and Morgan, were assisted by a look-alike member of Duran-Duran, who was more than happy to give them a "hand." I took a picture for their mothers and then made preparations to blow my safety whistle if needed. Inspired by Winston Churchill's famous exhortation to "Never never never put the camera away," it has rarely left my hand since we've gotten here.

As much as Syd and I enjoy art, we made our visit to the Gallery brief, closely inspecting just a couple of pieces, including "Achilles's horses," before grabbing a snack and heading out to enjoy the plaza for some people-watching. We certainly weren't encountering the bleak, dreary, fog-shrouded London of Dicken's description. Instead, I was afraid we'd get a sun-burn sitting there!

From the Gallery, we divided up with some going to Kensington Gardens while my and Syd's group went to the British Museum. We were getting pretty tired by now but made a valiant effort to get to the upper floor exhibit to see Syd's mummies but eventually diverted to a snooty museum restaurant to split some sorbet. I experimented with some dandelion and burdock fizzy soda which was interesting. Sydney went to get our way-over-due bill and was told to "sit down" whereupon I threatened to throw a great big o' American fit but we got the bill so I calmed down. With the clock ticking, Syd and I prioritized our viewing, finding the Rosetta Stone first and then a bunch of artifacts from the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, one of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World. I loved teaching that lesson in 6th grade and was disappointed that Sydney had no recollection of it until she saw an illustrated diagram of the structure. "Didn't you have us put together a paper model of this," she said, wrinkling her nose at the memory. Yes!

We sat outside on the steps of the museum for a bit watching pornographic pigeons before heading over to Piccadilly Circus where, disappointingly, we didn't see ANY elephants. Another round of eating...Syd and I found a little cafe that served Caprese salad and we shared a chocolate eclair. The journey to the restroom was fraught with peril...down a narrow stairwell, along a dim passageway lined with questionable doors...I believe there may have been a naked lightbulb looming from the spotty ceiling with the chain swinging like an ominous pendulum counting down the seconds before we were "taken."

We reunited with our group to head to the London Eye, the great Ferris wheel along the river Thames that overlooks the city. We rode in an enclosed capsule to see London lit up. Back on the ground, we watched with some trepidation as a gang of 6th graders brawled in the street until their somewhat-responsible adults intervened. Navigating the several "Tube" lines, we limped slowly home. My roomies and I crawling up the final steps leading to our tower bedroom. Tomorrow...Normandy.

Two broads abroad: Letchworth goes to London

Happily anticipating my and Syd's school trip to Europe for the past few months, I got a case of frigid feet in the days leading up to our departure. "I'm going to cause an international incident," I cried to Brad who, by the way, didn't lend much in the way of reassurance. "You'll be fine," he said, shoving me out the door before directing all his attention on distracting our dachshund's devotion from me to himself.

On car trips, the Mosiman's have a long-established rule of not snacking until we at least cross the Wyoming County line. For plane trips, we staunchly refuse to eat in the home-town airport. This was particularly difficult when surrounded by high schoolers snarfing down Subway and spooning up parfaits but Syd and I held firm, refusing to treat ourselves until Philadelphia. Little did I know that Syd would use that 45 minute plane ride to drench herself from head to toe in the "fancy" drink that she had to order from the drink cart. With two hours before our connecting flight to Heathrow, our group was given the go-ahead to wander but "not leave Terminal A." Syd and I were off, on a mad hunt for airport pants. We searched all over A to no avail and then snuck over to Terminal B like criminals. Airport pants purchased, we trekked the miles and miles back to our sanctioned area where I immediately confessed and then ordered an inedible panini.

We boarded to London on a sparely-populated plane so Syd and I shifted seats so we could be together, scoring a front row area so we could stretch out our legs. We procured 50-some pillows from neighboring seats along with their accompanying see-thru blankets and settled down, Syd thrilled with the enormous selection of movie and television programming. We happily ate our gourmet pasta meal ("Isn't this just macaroni and cheese," Syd asked, gleefully spearing a spiral macaroni.), humming the Indiana Jones theme song as we watched our animated plane slowly span the map between Philly and London on the big screen at the front of the aircraft. Sleep was elusive but we cat-napped, getting up to stretch every few hours. Dawn greeted us with toasty hot lemon muffin tops straight out of a Seinfeld episode. "These are the best muffins I've ever had in my whole life," I mumbled through my mouthful. "Thanks," the stewardess replied skeptically, as she continued to pass out the pre-packaged snacks.

Security and customs posed little problem. I buzzed through security with a pre-screening pass, skipping the tedious "take off your shoes and let a complete stranger see you naked" process used for the common folk. "Did I win the lottery," I asked as I was ushered through security like a red carpet movie star, watching Sydney remove her belt, watch and sneakers to stuff them all in a small plastic tote, barely leaving room for her dignity as I was treated like an airport heiress. Customs got a little tricky when one curious official got a little to close to the herd in order to determine the type of migratory species currently corralled in front of him. Looking at me, he remarked, "Well, I know you're NOT a college group," before leaping back to safety as only the restraining mouse maze ropes stood between him and a raging, jet-lagged female.

There was a slight ker-fluffle at the airport when another tour group tried (unsuccessfully) to hijack our wheels. Then our adorable British guide, Annie, enriched our vocabulary as she explained how to adjust the air at our seats by "twiddling" the dial so we happily "twiddled" away. Our incredible bus-orientation tour of London was an eye-opener for approximately the first ten minutes before Syd and I succumbed to sleep. We awoke to find ourselves at the Tower of London. The brutal reality of a pay potty came as a shock to many but we quickly rallied as we prepared for a guided trip of the Tower. Our boisterous guide was fantastic and not at all shy about poking fun of his American audience, wondering what an American history teacher talks about after the first hour is up. We viewed some of the royal jewels, saw the moat, observed the place for private executions and concluded in the chapel where some 1500 bodies were later exhumed, years following their horrific punishments.

We finally arrived at our charming hotel, my group eagerly leading the charge. No elevator? No problem! One flight, Two flights. Three flights. Four. Top it off with a narrow winding staircase with steps that refused to accommodate my size ten monster feet.  My roomies and I abandoned one piece of cumbersome luggage and jointly hauled up two bags, at the end, one laborious step at a time. By the time we reached the top of Rapunzel's tower, we were exhausted but then immediately rewarded when a turn of the key revealed THREE beds! Yay!

After a brief rest, we walked to dinner. Syd and I ate at Gourmet Burger. We ordered skinny fries which was like eating hot, crisp potato sticks. Delightful. Then, many in our group continued on to King's Cross to re-enact Harry Potter's arrival to Platform 9 3/4. Donning a House scarf and Harry Potter glasses, you were given a wand, gripped the cart and were transported directly into the movie! Aside from losing my senses and abandoning my camera at King's Cross, resulting in a mad dash back through the train station, we had a magical time.

My apologies to Tuesdays: Changing the world one Pepsi vending machine at a time

Today was the ultimate exception to my established philosophy regarding Tuesdays. Going into it, I was aware that a great day stretched before me but my good fortune continued to escalate as my Tuesday progressed. As I awoke, I considered my day. First of all, I knew that, in my van, a Pepsi, purchased for me yesterday by Sydney, was chilling to perfection alongside a chocolate-covered coconut Mounds bar. As today was the first installment of the much-maligned NYS ELA test, I anticipated a state-sanctioned period of student-silence in my classroom from 8:30 to 10 am. I would pick up my Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny from my friend, Amanda at lunchtime. AND...my end of school day was marked by double specials which meant I wouldn't have students for two back-to-back periods. Were my stars aligned or what?

But, believe it or not, it got even better! Prior to the beginning of test time this morning, my friend Amy White came gliding into the room bearing the homemade perogies and bread which would become my family's supper this evening. A mom and fellow educator brought in an encouraging test day treat for the teachers (as if 70 minutes of government-imposed silence wasn't enough!). The afternoon faculty meeting featured ice cream sundaes. Is this day for real, I thought, pinching myself. And then..a chance encounter caused.my already-brimming with happiness cup to overflow with gladness.

The vending machines in the elementary faculty room played a major role in my decision to move from 6th to 4th grade. Little did I know how heartbreakingly temperamental these machines were and how much they would cost me...financially AND emotionally. Lately, I'm been tormented by E6. That button has been holding my Snickers bars hostage for weeks. I've left plaintiff notes, more like essays, taped to the machine, detailing my suffering to no avail. On the other side of the room, the Pepsi machine stands, vacant and aloof, mocking me with its electronic "s o l d   o u t" banner each time I insert my coin offering and hopefully push the button. So today,walking past the propped-open door of the faculty room, I caught a rare sighting of the most-elusive of creatures: the Pepsi vending machine guy. "Were you able to fix E6," I asked hopefully. His affirmative answer elicited my involuntary shout of joy. His laughter encouraged me to press my luck. I ventured into the room to quietly inquire about the complexities of the Pepsi machine's soda-holding capacity. What I learned was shocking. My Pepsi machine holds twenty-six 20 ounce bottles of Pepsi but inexplicably carries double that amount of Mountain Dew and Diet Pepsi. I KNOW! I was shocked too. The Pepsi machine vending guy (Todd) was very receptive to my ideas. Before you knew it, I was wielding a knife and helping Todd pop out the top Mountain Dew button and replacing it with what the Lord obviously intended to be there, Pepsi. Before leaving to retrieve his inventory order, Todd rewarded my valuable vending machine insights with a free Pepsi. I KNOW!!! Tuesdays rock!