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.