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!