....and then I walked to the Opéra

There is an Indiana Cafe! In Paris! It's Tex-Mex food..I don't see the connection.

No matter where I go in Paris, I always end up at the Opera House. I could be on the opposite side of town, opposite side of the river, and still manage to wander back to this monument. I can't decide whether it's a curse or a blessing that I find my way back to the same tourist spot...every day. Is this some sort of cosmic message? I can only hope that maybe one day I will meet my future husband--or at least a good-looking frenchman--in front of the Opera. Dream on, right?

Well let me resume the events of my week. Sunday the kids and I went in to Paris to see Caroline run La Parisienne, a 6k all-women race in the city. Of course Zoe had to help buy the tickets to get there---the kiosk for train tickets conveniently didn't accept my debit card or the 20 the parents gave me and all I had was 4 euros in coins--but other than that things went smoothly. They had tons of cool live music and I even had a Weeds moment (see video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lp8xxDARwN4). There were 17, 000 women plus a few guys with skirts and makeup on. I can't imagine being a man and running six kilometers in just a skirt....

Zoé and Éliott on the train

While on the train subject, I must warn everyone that is ever considering visiting Paris to never try to find the Magenta station. This nebulous Metro/RER train stop is like the Bermuda Triangle. On the map it is perfectly visible, but try to walk there and you're screwed. After three hours of touring, ALL I wanted to do was get on my train at Magenta and go home. I followed my little map to the appropriate point and was very, very disappointed. Let me transport you to the scene. It's five pm, raining, I have a foot blister the size of a fist. I'm somewhere in between the North and East train station. I've made the block, oh, five times, and the people at the corner café are starting to think I'm a pickpocket thanks to my darting eyes and lingering manner. Finally, I give in and ask some worker at the train station. I know what you're thinking..."why didn't you do that in the first place??". Well, you come to France and ask a french worker for directions and see for yourself. I don't enjoy large doses of condescension and belittlement.

Two escalators, three winding ramps and again two sets of stairs later, I find Magenta. Never, ever again will I use that station. NEVER.

And tonight's (or today's) final train story. Today I visited Père Lachaise Cemetery. Boarding the Metro, I was very happy that for once there were a ton of open seats in my car. As I went to sit down, I noticed that the train was very packed...every section except mine. The second I settled in, I realized why. Something, maybe even someone, had rolled in garbage and rotting meat and then died under my Metro seat. Four years ago. I wretched. When I looked up to discern the origin of the scent, I noticed the other side of my car looking at me with schadenfreud-like anticipation. Unlike me, they saw the unfortunate origin of the smell and chose their seats wisely. I was the stupid american in the stink zone.

The ONLY redeeming part of this stench-fest (I had to ride in it for four stops) was seeing other unfortunate souls get in my car. Each one would step in the car--on his phone, talking with a friend, listening to an iPod--and then it would hit. That stench would have knocked a smile off the face of Satan himself.

In serious tourist news, Alain gave me a great little route to follow. There were tons of cool alleys with shops and restaurants and well, if I hadn't ended up at the Opera, I might have stayed to shop a little. For anyone hoping to glean some actual advice on traveling in Paris, take the Metro to Place Monge and walk around.

Some closing notes:

1. French kids have WAY better hand-clap songs than us. Forget "Ci-ci My Playmate" and come learn "Boom, Boom, Boom Ca Fait Elastique".

2. I tought the family how to roast pumpkin seeds tonight. Christmas come early I tell ya. Dad, you would have been proud.

3. My driving has significantly improved. I average 1.5 stalls per day.

4. You know how as a little kid you always tried to make adults (or even just your friends) say bad words...stuff like PEN15 and the like..? Well the French have that, too. The kids asked me to say the initials of Grand-Pere Tortue. So I said GPT (which in french sounds like jay-pet-ay). They burst out laughing, leaving me clueless. Finally, it registered. GPT sounds exactly like j'ai peté. I farted.