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).