Becoming a Mrs.

Let me just say, that this was insane. The whole idea. The whole, "I'm gonna go to France, I'm gonna be fluent, I'm gonna plan a wedding, I'm gonna come back to a normal life." Moronic much, huh?

My last entry left you with Husband (that's what he is now, my goodness, it has been a while) and I had just been locked out of the apartment in Paris, found our way back in, and hunkered down for Armageddon. We spent the next day walled into the apartment. Tea, baguette, and Nutella sustained us as we gave up watching TV (Shad was falling asleep on account of not understanding a thing being said) and we decided to take turns reading an HILARIOUS blog to each other, http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/.

We acted out the voices as we saw fit, wrestled around, and just enjoyed each other's company. It was a little bit of a bummer, being in Paris and not being able to leave the apartment, but having not seen each other for so long, we didn't mind.

We took some walks later in the afternoon, once the elevator was repaired and decided to go to Caen to see my host family on his last full day in France.

Early the next morning, we almost missed the two-hour train ride to my Norman home, on account of my skewed sense of time and a horrendously long line at the Saint-Lazare train station. Once on the train, we chatted like two magpies, but soon dozed in each others' arms, as the green countryside rolled past us.

On arrival, host mom came to pick us up in the car and Shad winced at the sharp turns and narrow lanes, just as I had during my first few weeks abroad. I smiled softly at the nostalgic moment playing in my head as we rounded the corner to our house. Shad received a mini-tour while being bombarded by my host brother with questions and excited chatter of all sorts.

We retreated to the garden, as my host parents finished making lunch and host brother continued his prattling without breath. He sewed a few French words and phrases into his English and ended up switching to French all together. I laughed and glanced at Shad, asking if he had caught any of that.

His big eyes answered for me, and my host dad sat down, while correcting the child to speak in English for our guest. We had a wonderful lunch, finishing with a plate of 6 different cheeses. Every one of them, Husband savored, and I thought to myself, yes, he's hooked! 




We then took Shad to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. The somber scene was peppered with my host brother's usual confused questions. "Maman, pouquoi tout le monde parle en anglais?" He asked host mom. "Because it is an American cemetery. Many people who come here are American and it is operated by Americans, so everything is in English." She tried to explain the cultural significance, but a boy of  eight can only understand a terrible war in years past as 'something grown-ups talk about,' so he skipped along, and played under some trees.



We had a train to catch back to Paris, as Shad was leaving in the morning, so the family bid him adieu, and we boarded the train back in Caen.

The next morning was absolute misery. Period.

I left Shad at the terminal with unruly tears streaking my face as I walked away and found the nearest elevator back to the first floor and to the shuttle. Osama Bin Laden had only been killed a few days before, and there was an uneasiness at the airport that made my stomach curdle and roll. I just wanted to get out of there and stay updated on where and when his plane was landing later in the evening.

As I was heading to the shuttle, a voice came over the intercom, saying that a mysterious black bag had been found at the shuttle, so it was being shut down, while four chiseled French officers jogged by me with there AK-47s in tow. Ha. Awesome.

They checked it out, and we were finally permitted to get on the shuttle. The rest of the ride to the apartment consisted of me trying not to be a girl and cry profusely. Several other unsettling incidences happened on the way  back, mind you (i.e. people hustling for money on the metro, some drunk American guy grabbing a handful of my right cheek, as I squeezed past him onto another metro line. I almost decked his friend, but he threw his hands up with a 'sorry, I was just getting my drink that's conveniently on the floor in front of you' comment). In other words, it wasn't a pleasant journey.

I opened the apartment and embarrassingly fell into a heap on the bed and wept as if Husband had DIED or something. Maybe if he was horribly mangled or had gone down in a plane crash, I would have been justified. That, however, was not the case, and when my tear ducts were exhausted, I sat in disgust at my own helpless, self-pity.

Returning to Caen was just AWESOME, considering finals started the next day. For reference as to my mental state during those last two weeks, see two blogs before this one. Mushroom-cloud meltdown would describe it nicely, I think.



That weekend between the crazy, a friend and I took a day-trip to Paris to buy souvenirs and say au revoir. It was sunny and beautiful and rather uneventful except one incident.

I couldn't leave Paris without seeing the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore. We were walking in circles looking for it, as we knew the general area, but decided to sit and scour our maps for the honey-hole of English literature in Paris.



We sat on a curb next to the Seine, overlooking Notre Dame. Both of our heads were buried in our respective maps, as we were concentrating oh so hard on the destination, and then I saw a dark figure in my peripheral vision. It was a little too close for my comfort, so I looked sideways at my friend in just enough time to see a young man, wearing all black with long, boho locks, leaning down and kissing my friend on the top of the head. He then continued to just keep walking.



Well, as you can imagine, my first reaction was to just BURST out laughing. Really? Did I just witness this? It was so much funnier in person than it sounds here, I know, but if you can imagine yourself there, perhaps you will somewhat understand.

She just ruffled her brow in confusion and question as to whether that had happened too, and as we both looked up at him walking away, he turned and glanced back at her, giving her what she described as, "the rape stare." I wouldn't argue with that.

For the duration of the day, we each would suddenly bust at the seams laughing while reminiscing on the event. There was no need to tell the other what had made us laugh.

My final tests were squished between two days. The first was an oral exam and the second was three different written exams. The day of the oral exam, I got word that the town in which my man and so many dear friends live, was afflicted by a series of horrible tornadoes. Naturally, I was stunned.

Of course, I happened to see this literally five minutes before I left for my exam. I walked numbly to the door and gave a brief description of what I'd just read to my host parents. They urged me to tell the proctor what had happened, but I forgot when I went into my exam.

Funny thing is, I did MUCH better on this test than the latter oral exam. Her notes, which I read upside down, read "strong accent and very correct." We ended up talking about my future plans, as I had left little for her to question after my initial analysis.

The last few days were spent with all of the friends I had made in Caen. The last day in particular, my host mom and I went to a store which specializes in Calvados, because I wanted to bring some back for our house. I wish I could have brought a bigger bottle and some pommeau, but I was so strapped for space, I ended up leaving half of my clothes that I'd initially brought to France there.

We had a party that night celebrating my host dad's accomplishments with his latest documentary and my leaving the next morning. It was a bittersweet night. I was so excited to see my man and my girlfriends, see my  dog, sleep in my bed, enjoy all of the comforts of my own culture, and yet I was so torn the next morning at breakfast. Poor host brother could not bring himself to escort me to the ferry docks, as he said he didn't want me to see him cry.

At the port, I kissed my host parents good-bye and was the last person to board the ferry bound for England.



I dropped off my luggage in the luggage room and was almost trapped inside!

"PARDON!" I yelled, as I heard the door slam shut and a young man, probably no older than me, smiled sheepishly and apologized as I exited with my satchel around my shoulder. Finding my reclining seat, for which I had paid extra, I felt a bit irked that there were other seats on the ship, and I could have saved those five pounds. Oh well.

I was so antsy. SO antsy.



I got up after we took off and ordered some breakfast. The crew was mostly French, the passengers were mostly British, so I had fun eavesdropping on the plethora of gossip and conversations in the two languages. The seas were calm when we left France and the sun was burning the last whisps of clouds away, but after being at sea for an hour. Dark clouds were on the horizon toward England and we were chugging straight into them.

The ship began rocking and every adult aboard the ship was woozing. There were a few school groups, who had taken a field trip to Normandie over the weekend and didn't seem to be affected at all. I just sat in the cafe and watched the waves, but after a while so many people were talking about being nauseous and the smells of retching middle-aged travelers were intolerable.



I don't get sea sick, but if you've followed my blog, you understand my feelings about vomiting people. Therefore, I went outside with the rain and the seagulls. It was actually very nice. COLD, but nice. I ended up on deck for the remaining 5 hours, only going inside for some apple juice. I listened to music, walked the slippery deck, and day-dreamed about Vikings and princesses and William the Conqueror sailing these same waters on this same route.

The clouds began to lift near land, and the emerald banks of England and distant Ireland were gems that helped calm everyone's uneasiness.

We pulled into port and I went through customs. The guy almost didn't let me into the country. He looked at my French Visa suspiciously.

Customs guy: "You were in France for a while."

Me: "Yes, I was studying there."

Customs guy: "How long you plan to stay in the UK?"

Me: "Just the night, I'm catching a plane at Heathrow tomorrow."

Customs guy: Condescending eyebrow.


Me: "It's cheaper for me to leave out of Heathrow."

The guy flipped through my passport a few more times and then finally stamped it. I hauled my luggage onto a shuttle bus to the train station, (which passed by Charles Dickens' house, I suddenly regretted not making a trip to England, like I'd planned) through a very confusing train station (seriously, I'm a native English speaker and I had issues), onto another train, onto two more buses. Finally, I finally arrived at the airport.

I just wanted in my hotel room, but let me say this, matchboxes are bigger. I didn't mind though, I love small spaces, like almost in a creepy way. Maybe because I am a small person? I actually feel horribly uncomfortable in large spaces, unless I'm outside.



Example? I babysat in a house that was over 10,000 square feet in Dallas. I never went back. You get it.

Anyway, I loved it. It was efficient and tidy, regardless of the fact that my luggage consumed ALL of the floor space, but I talked to my man over Skype and watched an episode of Sanctuary and tried to sleep. It was difficult. I was SO excited.



The next morning, I didn't have the stomach to eat any more airport food, so I got an iced green tea and a little packet of chocolate chip biscuits. Finally, boarding the flight, I was not excited to see a very attractive man sit next to me on the plane. There are reasons for the dread.

1.) No make-up
2.) Engaged-and many men will hit on you regardless of this fact
3.) the thought of sitting properly the entire 10 hour flight made my back hurt just thinking about it

Regardless of my lack of enthusiasm and my hammed-up tired-eye routine, a conversation still ensued, but was ended when the flight attendant handed us a customs sheet saying, "If you have the same last name, you only need one."

Oh jeez.

I watched several movies, and listened to music after the change-over in Atlanta. Hot guy was switched out with a crying baby. Sweet.

FINALLY, I stepped off the plane in DFW, with the sun just barely brushing the horizon, it was 3 in the morning for France and my tired body. Exhausted and hungry, I found my man and we had a bite at La Madeleine.

That was my adventure, so I thought. The adventure feels as though it JUST ended, because the next day, the boy and I began moving into our new apartment which is literally on the other side of a fence from our old one. We saved gas, but it was hot. Record hot. Like it has been all summer in Texas. I was also jet-lagged. Whatever. I had to be a beast.

Three days later, we were still in boxes, sleeping on our mattress that was lying on the floor (that's normal, we've slept like that for years now, it was just the ONLY piece of furniture until we picked up a dining room set from a fellow Etsy fanatic a few days later.)

We then made the trek to Houston to plan the rest of our wedding in 12 days. Woot.

All of this was also a blur of stressful shopping, running, and couch surfing. Two days before the wedding, my oldest friend took me to the Galleria, as I hadn't found shoes yet. I was also having issues with my florist, so while in Urban Outfitters, I spotted a lacy antique fan hanging with some jewelry.



Me: "Oulala, pretty!"

Oldest Friend: "They are pretty-"

Me: "-how many are there?!"

Oldest Friend: "Six."

Me: "Problem solved and God loves me!"

I bought them on a whim for my bridesmaids, but ended up liking them SO much better than flowers. I had considered fans for the bridal party when we first got engaged, but I hadn't found any that I didn't find cheap-looking. Ecstatic about the find, I also had in mind that my other friend is amazing with flowers and she had already offered to do my bridal bouquet, so when we passed L'Occitane, I bought a bushel of dried lavender for a pop of color and scent, then found my Marie Antoinette meets Ashley's visions of pink shoes and voila! Shoes were bought at Bakers.



Three problems solved in one trip. Dang. Seat of my pants and the skin of my teeth is how I'd been rolling for the last four months, so I guess fate decided to keep it that way for the wedding.



That night, Oldest Friend decided to take me out to a bar that she frequents to relax and have a little girls' night before the wedding. Ha.

She got my shwasty faced and took me to a strip club! Yes, my friend who, besides me, was known as the prissy, smart, goody-two-shoes growing up, took me to a strip club. We laughed. A lot. It was an experience that I'm glad I shared with her, and I will always smile and shake my head at the memory for the rest of my life.

We returned to my mom's house and my man returned from his night out with his brother. They had just gone to a bar and a friend's party and didn't believe us when we said where we'd went. Everyone has laughed at this story, because I had the stereotypical 'bachelor' party and he had the'bachelorette' party. Whatever. It's how we are.

Day of the wedding was INSANE. We got up and were running errands that we hadn't had time to do beforehand and Shad and I ended up the last ones in the wedding party at the venue. I had two hours to get ready.

Upon arrival, I jumped in the shower, during which time, my photographers arrived, and when I got out, my hair went into rollers. As I was rushing to get ready, my almost-sister-in-law walked in asking for music. I didn't have music, I sent our DJ three emails with lists. Apparently, he had no idea about them. Urgh!



Oh well, we pulled together what he had and continued to frantically throw ourselves together. My bridesmaid who was making my bouquet suddenly came to me, as I was near ready, crying saying that she'd forgotten her dress at my mom's house. An hour away. OH dear.



I started laughing, as I do when under stress and the situation is just funny, and began asking if anyone had a spare black dress with them. Nope.



One of our friends who had driven from DFW arrived and as she hugged my neck, I asked her the same question. She said, "No, I have a purple dress, why?"

We explained and the wonderful friend she is, looked at us and asked where the nearest shopping center was located. I told her and she was off with her husband to buy the first black dress they could find.



The photographers then came in and explained that it was time for the first look. The first look is a new tradition that I really like. The bride and groom are led to a secluded spot to see each other minutes before the ceremony. Everyone began trying to pull the curlers out of my hair, while I giggled incessantly, and finally flipped my head over to let gravity do its job.



I was then led to him on the balcony of the mansion at which the wedding was taking place, and we had such a special, intimate moment shared by only us and the photographers.



We were both so giddy, neither of us nervous, were ready for the ceremony to commence. I made my way down the aisle, dad in tow (I really wanted to walk by myself, but then thought it would be selfish, as my dad is a bit traditional and I had a feeling he wanted to accompany his oldest down the symbolic aisle, I simply stopped him at the end of the first row of chairs and led myself to my new husband. It was nice).

Anyway, rings were exchanged, vows were said, prayers were asked and Shad and I tried to keep our laughter to a minimum. Such a happy, and hot, occasion was a blast. The reception was a blur. Most couples have told me that the ceremony goes by so quickly and is a blur, but they remember much of the reception, it was the opposite for us.



We had two bites of food, a few drinks, and danced the rest of the night. Everyone said goodbye and we headed up to the honeymoon suite at the inn and just relaxed.

The next morning we awoke to homemade Bananas Fosters with the other guests who'd stayed at the inn. We laughed over everything that had happened the day before, and Husband and I were just happy to be able to use those words.



Since then, we've returned home, had an unpacking party, and found the usual college jobs. We are so excited about finishing school this year and being able to begin our lives together. I guess this concludes this blog. I am considering writing another one, but am still considering possibilities. Cooking, domestic life, crazy things that happen to us? I'm not sure yet.



I know one thing though, after all of this. I'm so unspeakably happy to finally be hitched to the man of my dreams and I want to live in France again. Ok. Two things :)



Also, I miss my host family. So much. I bonded with them much more than I had ever anticipated, and I will continue to stay in contact with them. God was watching out for me when he placed me in their home. I find myself wanting to tell them things about my day, or seeing things that remind me of them. Coming back was much more difficult than anticipated.

I am still going through reverse culture shock. It is a bit better now that I am working, and don't have idle time to mope, but there are so many things with which I get frustrated that I found culturally more beneficial in France than in the US.

Reusing grocery sacks. It's a small example, but it bugs me that many people here don't. Having crappy public transportation is another thing. The stigma that only "poor" people or "scary" people use public transit in the US pisses me off. Just saying. It's more efficient. Period.

As you can see the coping is still happening, and I am eager to receive my grades and return to school. We shall see what else lies in store for mine and Husband's roller-coaster life.

I'M GOING TO CONQUER THE SEA! (of Versailles)

Oh my goodness, Versailles trip! This day was my favorite, as far as seeing Parisian things. Shad and I were FINALLY able to push each other out of bed early on Wednesday morning, as the need to see the most opulent place on the planet was enough incentive.

We took the metro to the nearest RER line C platform and rode the 30ish minutes out to the little town. After hopping off the train, a crowd of people, of which we were a part, made its way toward the palace. I had read in a travel book before, that if one goes to the tourism office, one can buy certain tickets for Versailles, thus eliminating the ominous lines at the palace's entrance.


Louis 14th

So after dodging under some construction work, we entered the office with, thank Heaven, no lines. "Bonjour madame, monsieur" a woman behind the counter greeted. "Yes, we'd like to buy some Versailles tickets,"  I replied in French. She went into a shpeel about what types of tickets they sell, but I already knew that we wanted "le passeport," because those admit you to all of the sites: the palace, both Trianons, and the domaine de Marie Antoinette. She said yes, they sell them and told me the price, so I pulled out my wallet and handed her my student card, asking if I can get a discount as a French student.


Chapel

Just like at Notre Dame the day before, she said I get to go for free! Freakin' awesome. However, she rang up two tickets and after a bit of arguing with her, she realized her mistake and refunded me the equivalent of my ticket price. After receiving his ticket, we exited the office. I was feeling fairly content with the situation and fiancé was like, "I didn't understand anything! What happened?"


Hall of Battles

Me: "You didn't catch any of that?"

Fiancé: "No! You're not allowed to complain about sucking at French anymore!"


Hall of Mirrors

I just laughed at the back-handed compliment and we headed toward the golden gates. After a quick security check, we entered the palace. Grandeur, grandeur, opulence, more grandeur. That's the only way to describe it. Rooms after rooms of paintings, crystal, mirrors, gold, rich velvets, hand carved designs, and sculptures. It was magnificent. There were WAY too many other tourists, but once we made it out into the gardens, we could breathe again.



 We stopped in the little tea salon, as my throat was still bothering me from the vile-pepper-spray thing from the day before and we ordered tea and pastries. Three words: awkward language limbo.



The waiters we had, would begin in English, I would talk in French, fiancé would talk in English, waiter would talk in English, I would talk in English, and then we would all switch back to French. It was awkward and uncomfortable, like we the guy was insisting on speaking English and I was molesting him with his own language, but then when he switched back, I decided to relent to his stubbornness and speak English. That's not the first time that's happened to me. I figure if one is in a country with a certain language, it is polite to speak said language if one knows it, but the service industry tries to be accommodating acting as a polite host country, damn all of the politeness!


Queen's Chambre

The weather was perfect the entire day, which highlighted the beautiful landscaping. We began walking down the large middle path towards the Petite Venise, but were detoured by a random opening in the giant, leafy walls of the gardens to our right. I figured we had to veer to the right at one point anyway to get to the Trianons, so I went that way and Fiancé followed.



I began then to just make random turns and when faced with a five-prong fork in the road, I went left, just trying to keep towards the end goal. This innate sense of direction was, apparently, a little too much for Fiancé to handle. He cracked.

Fiancé: "Why left!? You always go left! How do you know we need to go that way?! Where are we going?!"

Me: Condescending "oh honey" look.

I explained my logic and he seemed like he was going to protest a bit more, until we came upon a sign that had an ice cream cone on it.

Me: "Ice cream! Potties! Let's go that way!"



There was a small opening in the giant, leafy walls with a concession stand filled with yummy goodies, like crepes and ice cream.


We stopped and bought a cone for Fiancé. Walking away, he was giddy and content by the chocolate masterpiece, and like the children who were swarming and buzzing about the stand, he suddenly fell silent. It must have been yummy.



We continued and soon found oursleves facing a giant pond in the shape of a cross. King Louis wanted a Venician experience in his backyard, so he had this giant waterway built for that purpose. There were row boats bobbing up and down on the water and tourists littering the grassy area around it.

Fiancé looks at me, jumps a little in the air, and squeals, "Can I row you?!"

I giggled and curtsied a bit, replying, "Why of course you may, monsieur."

We ran toward the hut to see the prices. 15 euro an hour. "We can do that." I was in such a tizzy to see the domaine of Marie Antoinette, as it opened at noon, I asked if we could come back. He nodded with a protruding lip and hung head, but then smiled, uttered his usual "just kidding," and took my hand. We made our way on a large street (18th century street, that is), and I imagined all of the fabulous carriages making their way down it.

After a bit of walking, we came upon another 5-way fork in the road that are so common in France, and following suit, I went left.

Fiancé: "Really? Are you just messing with me now?"

I just smiled playfully and pulled him, hand first, toward the Trianons.

Walking up to the Petit Trianon, we came across a sign that designated the area as being the domaine de Marie Antoinette. I was ecstatic. She's like my favorite historical character. You may hate me for this, but before you do, I ask that you do some research on her. Like everyone else, I saw her as the selfish, spoiled, evil queen who was rightfully beheaded, but when I began reading about her, I realized the error of my assumptions. Now I love her, not to mention that she has the best style of any European monarch.



Pressing on to the Petit Trainon's golden gates, we arrived a few minutes before the clock struck noon. I began snapping pictures again. We went through a short security check and entered the first room. There was a grand staircase and a small passage door under it to the kitchen area and servant quarters.

Passing through those areas, we saw the spacious kitchen and storage areas for things like gardening tools, which were all adorned with ribbons, charms, and paints. They made me smile. We then rounded back to the staircase and climbed the cold marble steps to Marie Antoinette's salon and bed chamber, as well as her ladies' chambers. Loved them!



All of the fabrics were light and airy, the powdery blue paint and white accents on the walls, made me want to stay forever and just relax.

I now know why she never wanted to leave! The palace is so overwhelming and with all of the strict rules and pomp of that time, I wouldn't have wanted to go back either. We giggled at the little beds, apparently people slept curled up in the fetal position to keep warm, so they made the beds smaller to create less surface area.



Believe me when I tell you that it makes perfect sense. Seriously, it is frigid in France. All the time. I never shaved my legs in France. That's saying something (except when Shad came to visit, of course).

After walking through more adorably decorated rooms, we descended the staircase and made our way outside. I couldn't wait to see the Hameau! Marie Antoinette commissioned this petite village to be made, because she wanted to live a simpler life. Pictures I'd seen of it were just perfect, therefore, I couldn't wait. Of course, there are no signs to direct one to it. Anywhere.


Le Petit Trianon from the back


Fiance insisted

Traversing the little pathway into the gardens, we came across little ponds and mini-canals that lead us to the Temple of Love. How sickeningly cute, right? Standing in the Temple of Love on our honeymoon. Oh well, it was pretty. Cupid posses in the middle and it's ceiling is ornately carved. Quite enchanting. Here are some pictures:





Shad and I, then, began stumbling around the wilder gardens, trying to find the Hameau. The gardens in this part of Versailles are nothing like the palace's. They are more English and unkempt. I like it. We stumbled across the Hall of Music, which is really just a well-painted, octagonal building that overlooks a little waterway.



Shad and I stuck our heads in it and belted out a few off-key notes and giggled at the echos reverberating back at us. By the way, in order to get to this little masterpiece, one must pass by an enormous rock and cute little bridge. Shad decided he wanted a picture.



After some more stumbling, we finally arrived at the Hameau. It had grown warmer and it was only the second time, I believe, that I sweated in France.



We wandered between all of the earthy building and snapped away at my camera, which died, so we had to switch to phone pictures. Sad day.




The bull looked up at that exact moment. It was funny.

After convincing Shad that it would be a bad idea to jump the fence to get closer to the animals, we headed back toward the Trianons to see the big one. On the way, I had made my way ahead of Shad by about 30 feet, as he had stopped to tie his shoe, or look at something, or I don't know what. Regardless, I passed by a gorgeous, flower-ridden tree ahead of him and upon approaching the white beauty, I noticed that it was buzzing.

The tree itself was buzzing, because for every flower on the tree, there were three honey bees to that one flower. I smiled and walked passed, trying to imagine Shad's reaction. If Shad has one phobia, it is of bees. Childhood trauma about sums up his reasons. I waited for him on the other side of the buzzing tree. He came around the corner, happy and smiling, heard the buzzing, came to a dead-stop, said, "Oh HELL no," and backed away slowly.

After some convincing and thought on his part, he decided he needed to conquer his fear. He began by walking slowly by it, but then sped away quickly after. Breathing heavily, he asked where we were going next. I responded that we were going to the Grand Trianon.

We made our way over and walked through the impressively manly rooms. If the Petit Trianon was a haven for my prissy side, the Grand Trianon was a haven for any devout hunter. They both appealed to me :)

We then sat on the steps of what could be termed "the back porch," after Shad ran around on the marble trying to slide, like a child trying to slide on tile in his socks. The air was getting quite tepid at this point and the sun was shining high overhead.  We decided to split a banana and then head back to Little Venice and get food/hop in a boat. It's probably illegal to eat in any of those buildings, but oh well. No one came after us about it.

Still famished, we walked the long walk back to the water and stopped at a food stand that had paninis, crepes, and ice cream. A bunch of early adolescents kept pushing their way in front of us, all speaking Italian. Us adults decided to let a few slide by, but after a while, Shad and I decided we'd had enough and jumped in front of everyone who had just cut in front of us. Childish, I know, but that is the advantage of having someone Shad's size traveling with you.

After haggling for food and jumping over a bunch of pushy children, we plopped down on the grass right beside the water and watched the ducks and fish swimming around. We'd almost finished eating when we heard a splash on the other side of Shad. Two brothers had been playing at the water's edge and one had fallen into the murky water. He climbed right back out, and as his mother was scolding him in a tangle of German and English while simultaneously stripping him of his drenched clothing, his father and brother sat back and laughed at the spectacle, as did we.



After digesting and further people watching, we rented a boat and got in the water. The Petite Venise is an enormous cross. Shad decided that he would row us the entire length of the four arms. I sat back in the seat and enjoyed the water and charming scenery while he grunted away. Every once in a while, amid his sweating brow and blistering hands, he would shout, "I'm going to conquer the sea!!!" I giggled and snapped a few pictures. After making it up one arm of the cross and out toward the right one, he was growing tired and asked what time it was, as we only had the boat for an hour.



It had been thirty minutes. He looked around us and with a hung head and protruding lip muttered, "I don't think I'll be able to conquer the sea." I leaned over and kissed him, asking if we could sit here a while and relax. He nodded, still with his hung head, but then cracked a smile, which put an end to the theatrics.



We rowed back slowly after a few moments and exhausted as could be, made our way out the golden gates. Once back on the RER, we almost fell asleep, but got distracted listening to a group of American women who were talking about their trip. The rest of the metro rides were a grey blur, but we finally arrived back at the apartment.

We needed to go get food at the grocery store, but figured we could put our feet up for just a little while beforehand. Ha.

We got through the fortress doors, but then noticed that the elevator wasn't working. I checked the other door and on it was note that read that the elevator would be under construction until sometime the next day.

Me: "No problem, we can use the stairs...where are they?"

We looked for them and determined that they were in a hidden space in the wall next to the elevator shaft. I tried to open it with all of the keys on the key ring, given to me by the owner. None of them worked. A few moments of oh shit went by, and a man came out of the stairwell.

He explained that we would need a key for the stairwell and then another one for our floor, and that if we didn't have them, our only hope was to buzz one of our three neighbors and pray that they open the doors for us. Awesome.

He called one lady for us and asked if she would open the door. She said okay, we thanked the man profusely and went up the stairs to wait on the lady. She never came to the door, despite our knocking. I contacted the owner of the apartment, and he said he had those keys, because that had never happened before, and our best bet was to get train tickets to Caen and to stay with my host family.

That wasn't happening, so we waited and pondered our situation. About an hour later, the same man came back and was quite irked to see us. He told us that there had been a break-in and robbery the night before, so everyone in the building was a little skittish. He then proceeded to calmly and politely, call the same lady and ask her if she had the gentle-womanliness to open the door for his American friends. I love French, one can insult someone in the nicest way possible.

When we finally made it back into the apartment, we were NOT leaving until we had a working elevator, so I was sent with an empty backpack to the grocery store to get food and Shad had to watch for me on the balcony and open the doors for me to get back inside the fortress of apartments. Needless to say, we were both glad to relax and sleep late Thursday morning.