Turkey for sale at the butcher shop near our hotel.
SH and I went to the Eiffel Tower, because what else does one do in Paris with an engineer? Well, besides go to the Sewer Museum, which is really interesting and from which I wish I could have found a souvenir for my college roommate, Rene, who is a civil engineer and who talked a lot about watersheds our junior year of college. Rene, their gift shop is lousy, which is a shame because there is so much opportunity with a Sewer Museum gift shop. As in, everyone poops.
One of the main reasons I wanted to go to the tower with SH was to purge my memory of my trip there with Gomez, the Moroccan millionaire with whom I spent a wasted week in France in 2005, one month before I met SH and saw the boyfriend light. Gomez did not want to do any tourist things in Paris. He had done that. Eet was boring.
Go to Chartres? How dull would that be? Far more dull than drinking a bottle of wine, changing into PJs, taking a four hour nap, and then going to The Gap. Four times.
But I insisted that Gomez go with me to the Eiffel Tower and then walk down the Champs, which he did, even though that is so boring.
Which meant I had to do all of that with SH to record over the Gomez memory, even though it cost $30 or so to go to the top. We’re in Paris! When is that going to happen again?
We stopped at the wine store on the way because that is what SH does.
Graves at the American Cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach. I would say, "American" graves, but this morning, SH and I went to a German war cemetery near Mont St Michel, where we discovered that there are German soldiers buried in the English and that American cemeteries.
Full disclosure. SH went to the wine store while I went to the consignment store with the Charles Jourdan shoes for 125 euros ( and Chanel jackets whose price I didn’t even bother to check), which I suppose is a bargain, but is still a bit much for me.
We didn’t want to take the wine back to the hotel because every time we took food into the hotel, we had to be really sneaky, as there was a small sign on the elevator telling us food and drink was interdit dans las chambers. As much as I hate to be a rulebreaker, this was a rule I had to break because Paris, bless its heart, is a wee bit pricey. (Socks cost 6 euros, which is like $7.80, and that’s just cotton/poly blend! Not even cute socks! Not even socks as nice as the ones you et at Target. Why am I looking for socks, you ask? Remember the Doc Marten debacle? Il faut use nice smooth socks with Doc Martens, not rough cotton socks that were stuck in the back of your drawer and that you grabbed when you were packing because you forgot that they wer e in the back of your drawer for a reason. They now reside in the poubelle of our Paris hotel room.)
Where was I?
Right. Carrying the wine because it would be easier to sneak past the night clerk, an inattentive college guy, than the day manager, a very sharp, on the ball woman of a certain age.
As we got into line, which was about 78,000 people long, SH saw a sign above the cashier: No glass bottles.
Well, that makes sense, I said.
Then he pointed out that he was carrying a glass bottle.
What to do, what to do?
I suggested we just hide it in the bushes, but he resisted that idea because 1. It was my idea and 2. He was convinced a security camera would see him and one of the many French soldiers strolling around porting machine guns would grab him and send him to Devil’s Island without even a trial. The French aren’t as big on due process as we are, which sometimes is OK, at least when it comes to blowing up those annoying Greenpeace ships. I kid, I kid.
He finally relented and we walked far from the tower and found some dark bushes.
Then we rejoined the line, where we waited and waited. I did enjoy watching the three guys behind us hitting on a beautiful young woman who was listening to her iPod. They tapped her on the shoulder, one of them saying, “We have a bet. Are you Russian?”
She turned, stared, removed her earbud, said, “No,” and replaced the earbud.
They said something else. She went through the same thing again.
I told SH, “She is totally not interested! Do they not care?”
They tried talking to her again. She finally turned her back. They got the picture. I was right hahahahaha.
When SH and I were finally waiting for the elevator, I felt someone brush against my butt. I turned and saw the guy who had hit on the maybe Russian girl.
“Excuse me,” he said.
I knew as soon as I saw who had done it that it had been an accident. Men who hit on gorgeous 18 year olds do not grab the butts of women of a certain age. Oh well.
SH and I got to the top without further incident. We walked from the second stage to the bottom, which was stupid because why pay all that money if you are going to do the work yourself? Then we retrieved the wine and went back to the room, where we lived happily ever after.