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.