The plane we almost missed

We left early for Charles de Gaulle because we needed more Metro tickets to get to the airport. Without Elise's guidance, however, we were pretty lost. We bought tickets at Gare du Nord and boarded the wrong train, which took us in the right direction but not all the way to the airport. We disembarked when somebody said this train does not go to Charles de Gaulle and we waited anxiously on the platform for an announcement that would tell us where to go. Eventually, Matt stretched his French tongue muscles and inquired of a woman,"Excuse-moi - Charles de Gaulle?" She pointed to a platform on the other side of the tracks, so we moved. I ate the rest of my millefeuilles, which was lovely even the day after. We finally boarded a very very crowded train to Charles de Gaulle and disembarked at Terminal 1, which turned out to be very wrong, regardless of what our reservation told us. We hopped back on the train and took it to Terminal 2, which passed through two parking lots en route. We walked the long way to our gate where we were greeted by familiar accents and non-accented English.

"Just note that your baggage must be transferred yourselves once you get to Toronto. This is not done for you."

Oh. I have never done that before, so good to know. We went through security painlessly and we walked through the gates. Matt and I stopped for coffee and a croissant before looking for things to spend our last euros on. Matt, ever the Grinch, refused to lend me euros to buy perfume. Instead, I bought magazines and hard candies at a Relay before we used the last French bathroom of our trip (*sniff sniff*) and then boarded our flight to Toronto. Air Canada is so smooth - I watched Doubt and attempted to watch Revolutionary Road before falling into a heap of brainless nothing in the middle. I couldn't watch Kate Winslet throw around old-school abortion tools and yell at Leo DiCaprio for his insensitivity. It was too real.

Once in Toronto, we had to go through customs and declare our items.

"The cheese and wine must be good. Everyone's bringing it through." It is France, after all. The Customs agent asked why we had spent so much, since we wrote down the wrong amount to declare. We said we had spent $1500 on gifts when we meant $500. The former amount was what we had brought total. We were waved through and Matt and I caught dinner at some diner that really liked beef and large portions. Ahh. Back in North America. We wasted time looking at ice cream and toques and novels and magazines and ... was that our plane? We heard an announcement:

"Final boarding call for flight 870 to Edmonton. Please make your way to the gate." Matt and I dashed for the gate at the end of the hall, where we were greeted by smiling flight attendants who handed me a National Post. Matt and I settled in just as the plane seemed to have small electrical problems. Matt leafed through a brochure that showed all of the Air Canada flights that go through Edmonton, which is not many.

"Edmonton is where planes go to die," I admonished. The man beside Matt in the window seat chuckled. He was our buddy that we never talked to. On the way to Edmonton, he ordered an entire pizza for himself and we watched him eat it while drinking our orange juice and coke. Ironically, the only plane we came even close to missing was the flight within Canada - from Toronto to Edmonton. Oh well.

This flight was fraught with turbulence and not even until we were over Edmonton skies. Just before we landed, we hit a frightful bout of turbulence that sent hands to the armrests and clenching. I did that on every landing, so it was no big deal for me, but Matt was grabbing the headrest of the passenger in front of him and our Window Buddy was laughing into the window as we went up, down, faster forward, up up up, and down down down down. Worst. Landing. Ever.

But we were on home soil. Matt's dad picked us up and took our bags to put them in the back of the van.

"Whoa! What smells so bad?"

Uh. Yeah. Matt's duffel. Tom made a face. It's his socks, I said innocently. It's the cheese, Matt said, glaring.

"Whatever it is, you're not bringing that into the house."

We were home.

Paris sans Planning

The next morning, Elise met us at our hostel and we set out for La Defense, which none of us had been to. Unfortunately, it was rather far and a longer ride on the Metro than I had anticipated. Once we were there, however, it was quickly apparent that it was the most modern part of Paris. There was a geodesic dome and a glass sculpture ... thingy, and a gigantic thumb thrust out of the ground. Like France wanted to give the world a gigantic thumb up! Only one, though. We took some crazy pictures outside before going into the mall and starting our day of shopping. I looked but didn't find too much. Matt had a pretzel and we looked at a bunch of stores before Elise showed us Auchan, which is the best all-round grocery store ever. I went crazy and bought all of the treats, cheese, and novelties that I wanted to bring back home, including olives, and then lunch for that day. On the way out, we stopped at Zara and I bought my black and white striped tunic for 9,99 euros.

We took the Metro to Concorde, which has a lovely fairground that we watched from a shaded wall. We ate our lunch and I scarfed down my three part sandwich slowly. My juice was made of clouds. It said so on the bottle. We walked in the sunshine for a bit, then opted to sit in the shade and chat. Elise told us of the most common English phrases taught to every French student who is learning English. What's his face is in the kitchen and what's her face is in the bathroom. It can be made very dramatic, actually. We then attempted to shop in the district, but found even the chocolate stores intimidating. We contemplated heading to the Latin Quarter, but our plans were quashed when we started buying wine and realized we would be rather bogged down by so many bottles when walking around the Latin Quarter. I guess that district and the Sorbonne were left for my next time in Paris.

Elise helped me select wines to make Kir and Matt bought wine for his parents from a fancy wine cellar. Elise bought a bottle for her parents and we promised to deliver it. Which I did. Eventually. We went back to our hostel to drop off our purchases then bought macarons at the bakery just around the corner from Caulaincourt. Elise promised us that we would not regret trying the Millefeuilles, which were just what they sound like - thousands of layers of pastry and alternating custard with delicious chocolate and almonds spread thickly on top. We walked to a nearby cemetery, where what appeared to be an independent film was being shot on the stairs, and we settled on a stairway in the shade to eat. I could not finish my millefeuilles - it was too hot and too large. I wrapped it for tomorrow. We got up then, and walked farther down from Montmartre, where we stopped at a corner cafe for a drink. We were seated directly in the sun, which was uncomfortable. The bartender said it was okay to sit inside, so we switched tables. I finally had a bright red Kir Royale and a Coke Zero. Just outside of the cafe and across the street was Chicken Corner and an adorable diner called Flunch. The French are so quirky. Before taking a picture in front of Chicken Corner, I went to the bathroom, which was posh and clean. In fact, it was the cleanest bathroom I had seen in a while, minus Elise's apartment toilet. Everything was automated, including the lights and the air freshener, which turned on automatically when you entered and ... well, shut off while I was on the toilet. But energy saving is worth it, I tell you.

We stopped inside Castorama to see if anything interesting might be around, but no such luck. We walked back near our hostel, searching for places to eat. Elise picked up some grapes, which were special to her. We do the same thing - freeze them and eat them frozen because they are a real treat that way. We eventually found a place to eat and the waiter agreed to bring Elise's food out quickly. Matt and I wanted to treat her to dinner for being such a lovely hostess to us in Paris and she ate and ran for her train. We had a more leisurely dinner, which I enjoyed very very much. The dessert was the best part, even if it meant stuffing myself beyond recognition with frozen slabs of chocolate drizzled in raspberry sauce and whipped cream. Matt and I walked up the hill to burn off some of these calories and around Montmartre before settling in our hostel room and holing up for one last night in Paris. It was dark and the night was still warm and, for once, I was happy to be going home tomorrow. It was not that I disliked Europe, but more that being home would mean not feeling guilty for sitting at home, drinking tea, and reading a book. I had seen much. Now, I would sleep much.

Pleasures in Plaisirs

The next morning, we had agreed to meet Elise at her house in Plaisirs-Grignon, but we had to check out of the Montclair Montmartre and back into Square Caulaincourt first. Matt went searching for showers but I just bathed in the sink in our room. The hippies were unmoveable and did not mind the sounds we made, dressing and going down for breakfast. Matt found the showers and I took breakfast while he went clean. Downstairs, a Chinese lady guarded the milk and coffee viciously - "only one roll!" - and I sat beside a good-natured boy who introduced himself as a Canadian from Waterloo. We exchanged vitals and talked about the sights we had seen. I said we were going to Plaisirs to see a friend and he said that he had not been out of the city for two weeks.

"There's too much to see, you know? But I'm getting tired of Paris. I wish I had planned to go to more cities."

I nodded. I told him a few details of Spain, which he was excited to hear, before Matt joined us and the boy decided he had better start his day. We finished breakfast, packed our stuff, and checked out. It was nice to be outside the stuffy hostel and into the cool, Paris morning air. First, I misread the map and walked the opposite way of Square Caulaincourt. Matt corrected me and we turned around and walked up the hill. Of course. You can never go downhill in Europe. Everything is an uphill struggle, really.

Finally, we dropped our stuff in the hostel and set out for the train station. We would have to go all the way down on the four and then take a train on the Ile de France side to Plaisirs Grignon. This time, neither Matt's nor my credit card worked, so we had to walk up to a cashier with a sticker on the plexiglass that protected him with a Union Jack on it and a small "I Speak English" slogan at the bottom. Thank goodness.

"Two tickets to Plaisirs-Grignon, please." He passed them without enthusiasm under the glass and pointed in the direction of the gates. We walked through to hear our train about to take off, so we ran through the doors and up the stairs to the top of the train where it was sunny and the PA system with a woman's voice was speaking beautiful French phonetics. I listened to see if I could try and divine the soft r sounds from her, but my French-Canadienne accent was not going to go away. A man sat a few seats in front of Matt and I, facing us. He was in a casual grey suit and he was well groomed. He had white hair and a soft leathery face that seemed full of rue and anxiety at this very moment. At his side was a gigantic navy blue gift bag sprouting ballet pink tissue from its opening. There was a large box of chocolates that seemed very expensive peeking out of the top of the bag. Beside the bag lay a gigantic bouquet of flowers, throwing orange, red, purple, and yellow light around the cabin. I watched as he got more and more agitated as the trip wore on.

Outside, the train to Plaisirs was not like the train into Paris from Charles de Gaulle. Ivy crept up the brick tunnelways and houses sat on green hillsides in soft sunshine. It was hot, but you could not tell. A bunch of people unloaded from the train at Versailles. The man got off a stop after Versailles, picking up his bouquet and the bag and hurrying off of the train. His face was eager. I leaned into the aisle to watch him embrace his wife. The anxiety was gone. He just couldn't wait to see her.

At Plaisirs, the end of the line, we met Elise just outside the station where she attempted to give me a hug, but I assured her that I smelled. She laughed when we tried our hand at giving her kisses on the cheek. North Americans are so absurd - they actually try to plant one on your cheek! We walked through the gates and into the parking lot to get Benoit's car. We were already late for lunch, which couldn't be helped because we were such confused and helpless little tourists. It would help if our French was more understandable, I think.

Benoit said something in French that I didn't quite catch and I asked Elise for a translation. "He said we're going to ... an open chicken restaurant." She shrugged. You'll see what he means. I guess so. The restaurant was hedge-lined and really quite perfect. Inside was cool and elegant, outside was shaded and lovely. We chose to sit outside where we took the menus and I had the menu of the day, as I have all throughout the trip. It included a zucchini and goat cheese salad, with tender meat and potatoes, accompanied by some red wine.

The infamous Kir story happens here. Kir is an aperatif taken before a meal and can be flavored with different liqueurs. (As a side note, Arrested Development makes a reference to Kir Royale in the third season. This is Kir made with champagne.) The waiter took our orders. Benoit will take peach - peche. Elise will have raspberry - framboise. I will have blackberry - mure. And for you sir? Matt looked up and said, carefully, "Fromage?" The waiter paused only for a millisecond before saying,"Ahhhh, oui. Framboise." before scooping up our menus and walking away without a single hint at Matt's mistake. He was slightly pink in the cheeks when I turned my eyes on him. Benoit was looking for chickens in the bushes.

"Did you just say fromage?" He reddened. "You know that means cheese, right?"

Everybody laughed. There was even a bleeding nose.

"He knew what I meant. They're practically the same."

Right. We ate our meal, which was admittedly the best meal I have ever had while in France, and went to Elise's apartment. She was concerned that it was messy but her living space met the conditions of "clean" in my books. Clean on a good day, really. It was nicely lit and they had a balcony that looked out over the village. The bedroom was about the size of my apartment and their shower was the size of my bathroom. They even had in-suite washer/dryer that sat under their counter and leaked wonderful blue stuff out of the bottom. Elise fretted at the stains. To me, it seemed wonderful. Even more whimsical was the bathroom, complete with decorative red toilet seat (the subject of heated debate as to how it broke) and a quirky gnome, made by Benoit's uncle. He apparently looks cross-eyed at you when you use the toilet.

Elise was generous enough to let us have expresso and sit in her clean apartment. Benoit made fun of how she broke the toilet seat, which she adamantly denied. After a good time sitting and chatting, we left for Paris, where we found a Michael Jackson tribute occurring underneath the Eiffel Tower. Matt's parents had informed us in Lisbon that both Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett had died on the same day. Apparently, Paris loved Michael very much (sorry Farrah) and they had imitations galore occurring on stages and in tight circles of people. Everybody for miles was dressed in black and white, with velvet blazers, white, glittering gloves, and the iconic hat. Billy Jean was droning constantly from somewhere in the crowd. We crawled through the people and onto the other side of the Seine for pictures. We watched the hubbub before deciding to get some ice cream at Berthaillard. A walk around to see the bumper boats, a stop at a mistaken Metro station, and a brief remembrance of Princess Diana, and we were headed to Berthaillard on Ile St.Louis. Ross had made me promise two things to him before we left Lisbon:
1. Take these postcards home with you.
2. Have a triple ice cream at Berthaillard and ask for the following flavors: Cannelle, cannelle, et cannelle.
After such a lovely meal in Plaisirs, I could not stomach a triple but cinnamon ice cream was a welcome idea on the hot and humid day. Unfortunately, they were not serving cinnamon, so I got green apple instead and found out that Berthaillard makes green apples better than God does.

We walked back to a Metro station and took it to Montmartre so that we could see the Sacre-Coeur basilica, one of the famous sights of Montmartre. Up and up we went, watching crazy people jog the height and back down, then up again. We walked into the tourist part of Montmartre, where restaurants and bars were overflowing with people and the infamous Chat Noir decorated store windows. We walked past and through them to get to the Basilica, which was crowded with people looking out over the entirety of Paris. Elise told us that you can go up to the top of the Basilica and see a 360 view of the entire city. Inside the Basilica, there were candles and people praying. I looked into the basin carrying holy water and felt the same pang of reverence I used to feel when I went to church regularly. But I was no Catholic and holy water could be Gatorade for all I knew of it. I exhaled a small prayer for the souls of those beside me and walked back out into the twilight. We walked slowly back to the hostel, stopping at a candy shop so I could pick up sugared violets and chocolates for my sister. Postcards were also in order, including my personal favorite and one I contemplated sending to Twila: a map of the Paris Metro and RER.

We watched girls get frightened by mimes and then we found our way back down the hill. On the way, we saw a bronze statue coming out of a wall, so I coordinated a photo shoot that Matt reluctantly became the star of, even though it was one of the photos his friends liked best. Use that one as your profile picture, douchebag.

ANYWAY, we walked down the hill and said goodbye to Benoit and Elise. This would be the last time we would see Benoit because he would work for our last day in Paris. Elise made a quip about how he is French and likes things that smell like feet. I dare not repeat it (and I don't remember the exact joke) but he said we may have to spend the day alone the next day. She may not survive the night. We left them to duke it out on the long ride home and we retired to our ... what's this? Private suite? I forgot what I had booked. It was a private suite that contained its own shower and sink. The bathroom to use was the one in reception or just down the hall. We showered and climbed into our double bed, which was really two twins shoved together. We read Catch-22 and ate candy until we got sleepy (which wasn't too late) and we fell asleep to the sound of our hostel receptionist telling girls sitting on the hostel steps how pretty they were.

Which way is the beach?

The next morning, I was a little bit concerned about arriving at the airport on time, even though we were scheduled to leave at 7pm. The thing was that we had not had very good luck going anywhere in Lisbon, so I had a feeling that we should be Barcelona-early to catch our flight.

Still, we had planned a trip out to Cascais to see the beach, which we were told was only 35 minutes by tram. Our red-haired hostess said that we should stop in Estoril and walk to Cascais because it is very beautiful by the coast. Accordingly, we got off too early - just after Belem - and ended up nowhere. We attempted to walk to Cascais, but it was completely useless. The closer we got, the farther we seemed. We had to walk alongside a highway, which did not encourage me. In a horrible mood, concerned about timing, and just annoyed at Lisbon in general, we walked the opposite direction, back to the tram station.

Ross had a crazy idea that we should illegally cross a highway and jump a fence to get to the beach. Under the pedestrian bridge we went and then back up. Running across highway. Jumping fence. Then there was a walkway, lined with swaying palm trees. It was sunny and the beach was warm. People were sunning themselves in the rather dirty sand. Barcelona's beaches were a bit cleaner but more crowded. Here, clams covered every rock surface and people stayed out of the ocean, generally. We lay in the sun long enough for me to burn my hip bones - yes. I burned my hips. Slowly, we walked out to the ocean, two by two, and dipped our feet in the Atlantic. It was cold.

We left as the day got cloudy and windy. It was 12:15 and I thought we should get back. I wasn't sure if we'd have time to stop in Belem, so we did not. We instead took the longer than 35 minute tram ride back to our hostel and just filled our afternoon with last minute shopping. When it was time to go, we packed and headed to the stop where our Aerobus had dropped us off, only to see one drive past us. We waited FOREVER for the next one to come and the driver opened the door. Matt tried to board and the operator drily informed him that this was the stop going from the airport and that we would need to go to the stop a few stops over. Of course.

It was now 4:30pm and we had already waited for over an hour. We walked the streets over to find people sitting on their suitcases with sunburnt faces. Encouraging. We waited. And waited. AND WAITED. Finally, it came. Full of people and likely late. We boarded the bus and left, anxious because check-in was at 5pm and we were already bridging on late. At the airport, we got off the bus and walked into the open terminal. We checked the reservation and it said Terminal 2B, so we looked for signs pointing to Terminal 2. Under our feet, a highlited pathway guided us back out the doors of the terminal and to ... our bus? Matt asked the bus driver where Terminal 2 was and he said that we would need to take a bus there. Of course.

So we boarded our bus again and it drove us the distance to Terminal 2, which was much smaller. Inside Terminal 2, we could not find a single Easyjet kiosk, except for one headed for Madrid and Mallorca. We walked back outside, terribly lost and afraid we would miss our flight because it was bridging on 6pm now. I asked one of the valets who looked relaxed where we could find this terminal and pointed to our reservation.

"Oh. That is in terminal 1." What?! "Terminal 2B is in Terminal 1."

Great! So we waited for the bus and went back to Terminal 1, rushing to get to our gate, which was already backed up with French speakers carrying far too much luggage. A man in uniform came up behind the kiosks and promptly switched the Easyjet sign for a Portaway sign, effectively switching our line destined for Paris with the next line, destined for London. We all looked at each other and ran to switch spots. It was chaos. By 7:15pm, we were waiting in the security pool, where about 20 gates were being security checked all together. The woman two spaces in front of me was forced out of line, partially stripped and searched. The woman directly in front of me was also stripped and searched. "Take off your boots," said the security guard. She just stared blankly back. "I said take off your boots!" he clipped. He turned to her luggage, which included a guitar case. "What's in here?" She continued to look at him with the same emotionless stare. "Go over there" and he grabbed her arm roughly to toss her over to someone who searched her. He took my passport, glanced at my face, and waved me through. I passed without trouble. The woman behind me was searched and protested when she saw me traipse off without assault.

"Yes, yes. Go over there." said the guard, looking past her and passing her to another officer. I stood on the steps and watched as Matt got the portable metal detector swiped over him over and over. He was always getting stopped. Eventually, we went up to our gate and stopped for food. Lisbon's MacDonald's had a sandwich called the Chicken Mystic. Curious more than hungry, I bought the meal and found that the Chicken Mystic tasted a lot like fish and the mayo was a lot like paprika. The Lisboas are famous for their sweet tooth and I managed to get a bag of caramels and chocolates at a sweet-smelling candy shop before we attempted to board. The Portugese, however, move at a pace of which even the Spanish would be embarrassed. First, they attempted to separate the A boarders from the B boarders, which is there inefficient system of priority boarding. Families and pregnant women board first, followed by first check-in, first seat priority. Since we had taken a bus from terminal 1 to terminal 2 and back again, we were B-grade boarders. Maybe people who don't get motion sick do not understand this, but the key to avoiding vomiting all over your neighbor is sitting on the aisle in the middle of the plane, where rolling action has the least impact. I took physics. And you can ask Michael Davis what it's like to have me vomit all over your lap, thanks. Once that attempt at organization failed miserably, they proceeded just to bar everybody from boarding. It was already take-off time and we could see our plane was not even on the tarmac yet. 10 minutes late, we boarded and our pilot carefully said that we were right on time since the conditions favored an early landing. Our pilot was rather good at speaking Spanish and Portugese but rather bad at speaking French, which was unfortunate for all of the Parisians heading home.

The flight back was uneventful, except for the ladies who were speaking French in hushed tones behind us. Once over Paris, the lady behind Matt asked if he could please turn down his air-conditioning because it was rather cold and blowing right into her. He obliged politely and shrugged. "Canadians, " he said, grinning and shaking his head. Yep. We're cold and frigid alright.

Down in Paris, the baggage pickup went slowly around in circles. I watched as a group from Canada (they had the flag sewn onto their backpacks) contemplated taking a taxi into the city. The Metro was right there, after all. But they had no idea where they were, really. Matt and I picked up his very smelly bag and started the long trek all the way across the massive Charles de Gaulle airport and down into the Metro station. Elise was correct in saying how expensive it truly was to get in and out of Paris. We bought our ticket in for 8,40 euros and 10 Metro tickets for the next two days. Matt's credit card would not work in the electronic kiosks so we used mine. Once inside the gates of the Metro, we had to decide which train would take us into Paris. Luckily, we picked the correct one.

12:30am in the Parisian Metro could have been Edmonton's LRT at the same hour. It was virtually deserted, except for the bearded homeless man who was giving directions to a stop for a woman who spoke much better French than I did. We attempted to look for Jules Joffrin, which was not on the old school map framed inside the Metro car. Finally, I managed to fish an old map out of my backpack and we were thrilled to discover it was on our good ol' line, number 12. We decided to get off at Gare du Nord and take the lines up to Jules Joffrin from there, but as I was about to fall asleep on my bag, we stopped outside the stadium. Here, what looked to be hundreds of people were being held back by police with batons. Once the Metro cars had come to a complete stop, they removed their hold on the crowd and people began to flood onto the platform.

"Move your stuff, move your stuff!" I said to Matt, who was also falling asleep. Groggily, he pulled his stinky duffel bag onto his lap. Then he saw the crowds and moved faster. We squished ourselves into the windows of the train just as hordes of sweaty, happy, Depeche Mode fans flooded the train, carrying posters and wearing t-shirts. My God. The Edmonton LRT would be lucky to get this kind of traffic at any time of day!

Once off at Gare du Nord, we took the appropriate lines and made it to Jules Joffrin where we had initial troubles orienting ourselves. A man with a British accent looked amused and offered to help us. He used the scrolling maps on the street to show us where we were and what direction we needed to head to get to Rue Ramey. We thanked him and he continued happily into the French night. Up the hill and over to the left, we found our hostel which was relatively clean. The man at reception gave us a key and told us there was only one key per room. We were on the sixth floor. Sorry - no lift. Good luck.

It would have been okay if not every building in Europe named their ground floor 0. Damn. After a long, tiring walk up the winding staircase to the sixth floor, we found our room hot and without showers on the floor. There was a WC and a sink in the room. I threw on my pyjamas, washed and brushed, then fell into bed just as Matt mistakenly locked our door. What North Americans we are.

Accordingly, at 2am, there was a knock at the door that almost woke me but could not break my limbs free from sleep. There was another quick rap, this time more insistent. Of course, Matt just turned over and ignored it. Somewhere, in the depths of my sleepy brain, I knew it was our roommates. So I willed myself awake and up and opened the door for them. I had seen them before - they were hippies! They didn't smell so good, but I was too tired to care. I apologized for locking them out then went to bed. Sleep never felt so good as that night, which seemed longer than any night we had spent in any city.

It is.

We only have limited time in Portugal, so Matt and I were gunning to catch our tram to the Alfama, but Ross has not yet arrived at the hostel. At 10:30am, he is here but has not been checked in. We wait and we wait until somebody finally helps him and then he disappears again. At 11:00am, he is showered and ready to go. Apparently, the train had not been all that great here and he had not slept well.

We took Tram 28 up the Alfama, only to find that none of the stations were marked! Sable leaned over and asked her fellow passenger where Praca do Graca was and the lady answered with gesturing. Two elderly ladies in front of us objected to those directions and a verbal showdown ensued. Through the yelling and jabbing, another lady joined in, leaning under the jabbing arms and telling us something different. Embarrassed, we exited at the next stop, turning around to find arms flailing out of the tram to direct us in all different directions. We just turned down the next street to go with the flow.

Actually, nothing is marked in Lisbon. No streets, no building signs, no nothing. And nobody speaks English, unlike in Paris or Spain. We wandered and wandered until we came upon a Tram stop and an old man asked, "Castelo?" I nodded vigorously - yes! Castelo Sao Jorge was where we wanted to be and was at the peak of the Alfama. He gave us directions in Portugese but used very effective gestures. We came upon the largo he spoke of and took pictures of the seaside city. Finally, we arrived at the Castelo, which was weathered and overgrown with greenery, but still very beautiful. We split up to look around but met up on the turrets again, where we admired the view and took silly pictures in front of windows.

I tried to call the fat cats that slept around the plates - "Gato? GAAAAAATOOOOOOS!" - but to no avail. The horrible screaming you hear around the castle are the peacocks who live there. Who knew they made such racket?! We left and walked down the hill again, back to the largo. A large machine promised stamps and I fed it 8 euros before I realized I had been tricked! It was jammed and would not feed me what I wanted.

We could not find the correct tram to take us back to Comercio, so we walked down . Matt and I stopped at the hostel for some water and to find directions to the Oceanario. We took the Metro to Oriente, where the famous Vasco de Gama mall is situated. We walked around the residential neighborhoods, looking for the Oceanario and blindly following the signs. We came upon the Mathnasium! I mean - the Mathnasium :( Eventually, we reached the gigantic Oceanario with its towering waterfall, its whale made of pop cans and its facts about conservation. I loved every single little part, from the way they subdivided their exhibits by ocean to all of the wonderful creatures in the central tank who live in perfect balance. As in ... they don't eat each other. We marveled at the size and lethargy of the ocean sunfish. We met up with Sable and Ross at a video about the treatment of animals at the Oceanario and tried to coax the Vibrio to bioluminesce inside the organs of Japanese pinecone fish.

I walked away fully satisfied and happy that I could be there. We wanted to rent bikes and ride across the boardwalk along the River Tagus, but the rental place was closed. Instead, we just walked along the boardwalk, all the way from the Oceanario to the Vasco de Gama bridge. It is the longest bridge in Europe and spans as far as the eye can see! From the Vasco de Gama, we walked ALL THE WAY BACK to Oriente station. Matt wanted to stop in the mall to see if he could find a gift for his brother at Fnac - he did look! But no such luck. The Vasco de Gama mall is famous for the water that washes over the glass ceiling of the building. The water comes from the River Tagus and is actually cleaned and returned back to the river in better condition than it came!

Back to Bairro Alto we went, looking for a place to eat in the fading light of day. Two girls in unbelievably high wedge heels were walking along the shiny streets of Lisbon and walking down the incredibly steep slopes that I was having a hard time with in my flats! We wandered and settled on the same district in which we had found the Indian restaurant. The restaurant was in my handbook and affectionately named "The Fatboy II" or El Gordo II, as it was known here. The rastafarian waiter greeted us with an enthusiastic "Bom noite!" to which we just stared back in fear because our Portugese did not extend to greetings past the afternoon. His smile slowly faded and he cut curtly to English.

El Gordo II follows in the steps of its predecessor by offering almost American sized tapas. I ordered the asparagus risotto and garlic mushrooms, which were delicious and too much for myself. Everybody else was too full to share in my bounty either. They meant it when they named it Fatboy. Still, I had my crema catalana for dessert (even if it was a cheat to have it outside of Barcelona) and enjoyed yet another sweet custard. It's a bit like a creme brulee, really, but more cinnamon-y.

From there, we walked back down the hill to a posh shopping district. I stopped to buy underwear at "Women's Secret" and then walked into a nearby mall, where everything was open! I could buy bedsheets, shoes, dresses, underwear, food - you name it, it was open and full of nighttime shoppers! I browsed but stuck with my underwear purchase. It would save me some laundry later.

We walked over to a fountain which was in the opposite direction from our hostel and the River Tagus. I noted for the first time that Ross was wearing a t-shirt from Madrid. "Oh yeah - I bought it while you were gone. I didn't go to Seville." What's this?! Ross stayed back and secretly shopped?! Secret Shopper Ross. Collect all six!

Matt wanted to see the House of Vodka, so we went back to the hostel to put away our purchases and get ready. The hostel, however, was too comfortable. Ross checked his e-mail and played on his computer while Sable and I chatted, like normal. Eventually, we were laughing and having too much of a good time to leave but Matt wanted his liquor. With much reluctance, I left the comfort of the hostel to go out into the busy night. On the map, it doesn't look too far to the House of Vodka. I can reassure you, however, that it is much better to catch a taxi or perhaps the Metro than to walk all the way from the River to the House of Vodka. Maps. They lie.

We walked along dark, deserted alley ways with the most narrow sidewalks we had encountered in Europe yet. We had to twist our bodies to get around corners and around the cars that parked alongside the sidewalks. Eventually, we reached a lively district with people walking away from bars. After some confusion, we found the blue-lit House of Vodka. We walked in and the bartender nodded, before politely telling us that they were closing. Dejected (and I somewhat annoyed), we left and tried to walk back a less shady way. Not really possible in Lisbon, since their unlabelled streets just wound around and around hills that were alternately populated and completely deserted. Eventually, however, we reached our hostel again and I just went to bed. Sable and Ross went downstairs, presumably to check their e-mails. And I fell asleep to an uncharacteristically silent Lisbon night.

Is everything backwards in Portugese?

In the morning, we ate a leisurely breakfast, checked our e-mails, checked out and headed for the airport. Ross would be taking an overnight train to Lisbon but he was staying an extra day so that he could see Seville. So he said.

At the airport, we had lunch and listened to American business men lecture each other on what was appropriate to say in an important meeting they were to attend today. Matt realized that he did not like blue cheese. I had a delicious vegetarian sandwich and a candy bar that tasted like all of the best cookies smashed into a bar and then covered in chocolate. When we made it to the gate, Matt and I went on a hunt at Relay for some Spanish porn. It was a goal we had promised to fulfill by the end of the trip. Alas - only Vanity Fair showed an almost naked Gisele Bundchen on its cover and I bought that as a poor excuse for porn. Matt found what appeared to be a business man's magazine and opened it to find real articles ... AND a small inner booklet full of racy pictures. Still not exactly what we were looking for, but at least we know that the Spanish are more discreet than originally thought.

The flight into Lisbon was the worst yet, with a rather shaky take-off and another shaky landing. We were let off onto the tarmac and we were shuttled to the exit, where passport control did not care about us, again. If you want stamps on your passport, fly major airlines. We took an aerobus to the Praca do Comercio, or so we thought. We got off a stop too early and had a bit of confusion finding the "big arch" mentioned in the e-mail. Eventually, however, we found it and ended up at a stylish and clean hotel. After the heat and dirt of Spain, breezy, fresh Lisbon was welcome. However cold I was finding it ...

Our red-haired hostess greeted us, gave us a tour, showed us to our room, and invited us to free guacamole and sangria at 8pm that night. How could we refuse! The beer and water was free. The hostel was a modern art museum, with postcards and letters flattened between the tablecloth and its glass covering. The stools were fashionably upholstered and color-coordinated to every other piece of furniture. Bean bag chairs lined the windows and laptops were available for use in the common room. There is no place without music in Lisbon - there is always singing. There is always an iPod pounding out tunes through impeccable speakers. We rested in our room for a bit before going for an exploratory walk.

The Tagus River is right on the street! Steps will take you directly into the river, which washed up onto the sidewalk in welcome. Small, colored pods held trees and people riverside on the promenade. Palm trees and poplars swayed in the evening breeze. Quaint stores watched us walk by and we drank in the architecture of the buildings. We stopped for pasteis at a small pasteleria, which was custardy, sugary, and cinnamony in all the right ways. Back at the hostel, guacamole was flowing, as were white wine and red wine sangrias. We sat, ate some of the best guacamole I have ever tasted on crusty bread chunks, and listened to Matt tune an old guitar with needlenose pliers. We attempted to play, but it did not sound very loud at all.

At 9:30pm, we walked up to Bairro Alto, where the sidewalks are like everywhere else in Lisbon - made of small pieces of ceramic. The Lisboas are so well dressed and we know why now - you can shop for clothing any time of night! Even after our meal that night, Pepe Jeans was open and brightly lit! We stopped for dinner at an Indian place which could not seat us right away. It was alright, though, because I could listen to the sound of Portugese. It is a bit frustrating for me because I cannot wrap my tongue around their L's. We order cheese and garlic naan and our own dishes. The curry is delicious, the naan is soft and hot, and the chai is authentic. Matt has his first Super Bock, which will never show up again outside of Lisbon.

We walk back to our hostel, refusing the many people pestering us to buy "hashish", and go to sleep in the cool air of Portugal.

TO-LEDO!

Early the next morning, we grabbed a quick breakfast at the hostel and rushed to Atocha station, where the electronic kiosks once again let us down. Matt and I grabbed our tickets from a cashier when we turned around to find no Sable or Ross anywhere in sight. In our car, the exterior temperature said: 26 C. Interior temperature: 24 C. Hmmm. Insulation not so good. I was getting hot and a bit sick, so I tried to sit up away from the seat to reduce the rocking motion.

The Spanish countryside is full of red rock and green, stubby bush. It's everything I had imagined it would be. When we arrive, only half an hour later, Toledo is already hot. We exit the station and I buy a bottle of water first thing. Sable and Ross are shooed to do their own, rapid walking while Matt and I take the long way up the hill. There is a pedestrian walkway that crosses into the New City of Toledo and, if you continue up the hill, to the Old City. The new city is boring, with the most unimpressive fountain in their sole traffic circle ever. A young blonde was smoking up the hill in front of us and attracted the attention of a very drunk man, singing his own theme song. He passed her, spun around and sang louder, obviously checking her out. We follow her up the hill and through the gates into the city. Inside, it's like living in a gigantic castle. Toledo is famous for its many beautiful and old buildings paying homage to Catholic, Islamic, and Jewish faiths. I get an ice cream and Matt buys a gigantic bottle of Aquarius. We make our way to some arbitrary point at the top and come up on a square with all of the tourist places. MacDonald's, for instance. I make a stop at Bereshka to buy some tops and a pair of leggings. We walk through the shopping district and I realize that I am sun exhausted. Sick and tired, we stop at a bar under an umbrella where a woman starts yelling at me from an adjacent table because I am trying to pour my water into a glass without removing the safety seal.

We walk some more, trying to shop, and even find the most whimsical candy shop in the world. The man up on the ladder is wearing a bubblegum pink apron. He swung his arm down to offer us a sweet cookie. Matt purchased a giant box of candy, complete with a large ribbon to seal it shut. I wanted to buy some sweets - Toledo is famous for it's turron! - but I decide against buying any here. Down the hill we go, around and around in circles. Up again, looking at gigantic buildings that look like they belong to royalty. Eventually, we leave the Old City and walk down toward the train station again to eat lunch. This time down, however, we found the magical, outdoor escalators that took us down into ... a parkade. We pull out our juice, pan, and fruit. It's too hot though and our appetites are very small. Trying to get out of the sun, we wander around the empty New City to look for shade. We find only narrow streets and empty buildings. Matt suggested that we walk up the hill another direction and we find a mansion with open gates. We walk inside and up some stairs to what looked like it could have been an adventurous look out, only to find a very bald patch of grass overlooking a fenced-off pool. The pool made us think that this was no tourist lookout so we climbed the stairs down only to find our entrance barred off by iron gates. We walk past a gardener who was looking suspiciously at us and up some stairs. Small groups of young people were talking in English on the terrace, so we assumed it was a hostel. We followed some people out of a small back door and out again. Phew. We walk farther up the hill and stop at a rotunda just in front of the hospital. It's breezy and hot and I am beginning to feel a bit better. Back down in the New City, we find a restaurant that has VLTs for its regulars and offers gigantic sandwiches. Matt eats and I pick at tapas. We have a drink and contemplate buying cigarettes from a vending machine but decide against it at the last minute. Back at the train station, our train still has not arrived and we are very bored. We sit in silence for a while before boarding our train and going back into Madrid. The outskirts of Madrid could be Toronto's outskirts, if it weren't for the dry and desert-like summer conditions.

To the Prado! This was a mission that really should take as much time as the Louvre. There is too much! The Thyssen had instilled in Matt and I a deep love and appreciation for El Greco whose artistic flair was beyond his time. He loved making people appear green and slightly sinister (even Jesus) just by outlining their figure in a deep black aura. The strokes, the definition, the expressions were all reminiscent of a comic book. We had fallen in love with a painting that was supposed to symbolize budding sexuality: a monkey, a man, and a magician were staring at a crystal ball that was glowing between their hands. Here, entire rooms were devoted to his visions - Jesus walking on clouds of dead babies. Innocence taken in the same way he would be slain. Another favourite: Goya's Pinturas Negras. You have to go all the way to the basement and far to the right but it's worth it. Saturn Devouring One of his Children depicts a long-faced God with his mouth open and dripping with the blood shed from one of the human beings he has just began eating. His eyes are incredibly terrifying. They are dark, they are intimidating, and they will pierce your soul to depths you swore weren't there. They speak to the darkest times of Goya's life and far beyond the darkest parts of my mind.

Across from the Goyas, you will find classical sculpture. Beautiful, white, marbled sculptures missing toes, noses, genitals, and other things that authenticate them as real. In two short hours, however, we were finished and I had only seen Goya, El Greco, and the sculptures!

On Ross' request, we head to FresCo for dinner where Sable learned we had eaten twice before. She made us jealous with tales of Finnish hippies who hosted her in Porvoo. We stayed for a while and walked to the fountains near the Royal Palace where many couples were already in the position. A tour guide gave information about the fountain in an indeterminate language while we listened and tried to divine the language but failed. Matt gave us a hoe-down photo shoot and we left the palace and all of its romance to show Sable the other side of it. Ross let his hair down and shook it in the breeze. We walked for a bit around Madrid, savoring its feeling before going back to the hostel, checking some e-mail, and heading to bed.

A Day at the Museums

We headed out early to see some of the iconic sights in Madrid. First, after the usual mediocre breakfast, we headed to La Fuente de Cibeles, which is at a rather busy intersection. After getting out of the Metro, we stood at the traffic circle, trying to take pictures of the fountain and of the Palacio de Communicaciones behind us. Down the street, we found the Museo del Prado, which we vowed not to see until later that night when it would be free. Instead,we opted to see the Thyssen-Bornemisza, which was not far from the Prado at all. Three young girls approached us and asked if we could answer some questions in English.

The questions were amusing and our answers were probably even worse. "Who's your favourite football team?" Espana? "Can you name three Spanish foods?" Paella, churros, and ... cafe con leche? They laughed at our pronunciation of churros and left us to continue. The Thyssen was showing a temporary Matisse exhibit: Themes and Variations. I took an earlier showing by mistake, as did Ross, so we went to the exhibit sans Matt and Sable. Inside the exhibit, people were crowding the watery, impressionistic paintings containing elaborate patterns on rugs, curtains, Turkish screens, at fairs, and all over the upholstery. Black-haired women sat or stood in ornate robes, reading or fanning themselves by windows. Naked women lay in seductive, relaxed poses. His sketches revealed slight changes in positions - hence the exhibition's apt name - including hand over the head or by the side. Face to the left or centered. It was a revealing exhibit and I picked up some of my favorites on postcards.

The lobby contained four paintings: one of each of the Thyssen-Bornemiszas and one of each of the royal family. The relief sculptures set in stone on display were interesting and set the tone for a collection of classical and Renaissance art. Upstairs, there were paintings that depicted country life, beautiful sea and rural landscapes, including many artists unbeknownst to me. Every once in a while, a familiar name popped up. My favorite part would have to be a split between the 12th and 13th century paintings - who knew art existed then! - and Dali's painting of a pomegranate birthing a tiger shooting bees out of its mouth and into the ear of a sleeping woman who is really a desert landscape. The title is something like,"Bee buzzing round a pomegranate a second before waking" or something wonderfully Dali-like. There was another artist whose name Matt kept repeating that I also liked but have now forgotten. He may be deaf but I lack attention.

The gift shop had no pull for me but I purchased a few postcards for the boys back home and we left. We walked back to the Palacio de Communicaciones in the dry heat of the mid-afternoon and looked around for a place to eat. Finally, we decided on a pizza place not far from the Reina Sofia, actually. When the waiters ignored us at the pizza part of the restaurant ,we moved to to the part that was decorated with table cloths. Sable and I had the menu del dia, with three courses. Agua con gas and a lemon granizado for me, with gazpacho, and some sweet pork on rice. Ross had a ensalada caprese and Matt ... well, I never paid attention but he might remember if you ask him.

After lunch, we walked to the Estacion de Atocha, which wasn't far, to see the greenery and the fabled 24 degree interiors. It was indeed misty and very beautiful. This would be the train station that we would need to get to for our trip to Toledo. Ross said he might want to skip Toledo and see Seville, so we played around on the machines for a while before realizing that our Canadian money was no good there. We would need to see a cashier. In the end, however, Ross decided to go to Toledo with us. We took a few pictures of the misty greenery inside, blocked off by yellow ropes, then left the relatively cool humid inside of the station to see another museum. Outside, the digital thermometer read 41 degrees.

We walked back to the Paseo del Prado and happened upon Caixa Forum - a free modern art museum in downtown Madrid. The vertical garden was cool and refreshing if you stood right next to it, as though the green and violet plants were breathing life back into you. We walked up the steel colored steps to the second floor where reception regarded us lazily. The exhibit was El Mundo de Islam and it was up one more flight of stairs. There, a security guard stopped only me from walking in the direction of Sable and Ross because, and I quote, "all tours must start over there". He pointed in the opposite direction. Whatever, constipated man.

I walked the other direction, looking at the oldest remnants of Islam culture on display in Madrid. It was a comprehensive historical tour through the development of Islamic culture in Eastern Europe. From the Visigoths to the Mujaders and then to the Ottoman Empire and onward, it was an exotic display of textiles, jewellery, pottery, ceramics, painting, music, and literature. Well set up, I looked at some of the oldest Korans in existence. Under glass, of course. They had a digital reconstruction of a book that contained Buddhist lyrics. It was a wonderful display but I was stopped from taking pictures by a guard, just as Matt's stupid $11 camera was clicking behind me. Of course, he didn't hear the guard.

We waited for Ross on the steps, when we were promptly told we could not sit at all. Anywhere. Thanks, Madrid. Upstairs was a plea for Cambodia - pictures of emaciated and malnutritioned children who were missing limbs and swimming with prosthetics. Videos in all languages, pleading for money and support and volunteers to help in an area without help. There were people sitting in organic cotton wear in a circle on the floor, discussing what they could do to help. It was like World Vision had designed a photography exhibit to draw in art-lovers (who are never really poor) so that they could sucker them in for money. Too bad we are poor.

Back to the Puerta del Sol, where we wander down a side street to a supermarket. Preparations are necessary for tomorrow's trip to Toledo. We decide that we will have breakfast on the train - Matt and I pick up some fruit, a few boxes of pure pineapple juice, and some pan de leche. Pan de leche is a soft, milky, almost sweet-tasting bread that has the texture and aftertaste of fresh dinner rolls. There is no such thing as whole wheat in Europe. The cashier lectures Matt for bringing his bag into the store - there are lockers at the entrance where you must leave your stuff. Otherwise, she will have to go through the trouble of moving her eyes from your fruit to your bag, which is more than she can bear, apparently. After a look through his bag and a sharp-tongued lecture, we left the store. We made a visit to the Mercado San Miguel, which is warm-looking in cherry coloured mahogany. The vendors sell fresh, misted fruit, fresh chocolate, Spanish wine, and seafood from the coast. It is warm and expensive-looking, so we look but don't touch. Outside, there is a cafe where we stop for a drink. Ross and I tried Horchata, which is a milky, cold drink made from some unidentified sweet root, something like taro, I can imagine. It was delicious.

We stop for falafel at Maoz and I eat some fries, halfheartedly. They're not so good. A bimbo asks the cashier what you put on falafel, to which he just smirks and shrugs. There is a freakin' buffet of stuff to put on your falafel, you American idiot!

We walk back to the hostel, where we rest and write postcards. I get restless and our roommates ask if we want to join them for a drink. We refuse politely and wait for them to leave. Eventually, though, I get restless, so Matt and I leave for a drink an hour or so later at the same place. The waiter places a small plate of black, round olives on our table and leaves us with our coffee and beer. The night is cool and the cafe is full of people. We drink our share and leave the cafe in the same bustling manner it was when we had arrived.

ART

The next morning, Ross waltzed into the breakfast room at 9:30am looking well rested. The ride to Madrid had been good.

We decided to visit El Parque del Buen Retiro first, since it was morning and cool. The park was beautiful and right beside La Puerta de Acala, which is a great, brick-stone gate in the middle of a traffic circle outside the park. The gardens below the gate are immaculately groomed.

Inside the park, small dot statues carrying books, standing pensively, or just looking quirky were scattered throughout the entrance to the park. Fountains and horse-drawn carriages occupied the spaces between lush greenery and great monuments to famous Spanish conquistadors, doctors, and scholars lay about the park. The main attractions are at the center on the lake, where the Crystal Palace and a museum lie on the lake. At 10:30am, the museum was not open, but it is free from 6-9pm, according to my book!

We eventually happened up on a garden that looked straight out of a Lewis Carroll novel. It had squat, perfectly groomed trees encircling round, symmetrical fountains within mazes of hedges. A set of grand staircases led down into the gardens, which used to be the royal gardens when the Museo del Prado was a royal palace. Under the staircases was a fountain. An old, leathery man was bathing in the fountain and reading the newspaper. Matt and I took pictures, musing at the architecture, when Ross appeared, seemingly out of nowhere and without a shirt. Everybody - this is Shirtless Ross. Collect all six!

At a vending stand, we stopped for a Magnum ice cream and then exited the park. Next stop: Centro de Arte Reina Sofia. We decided to do this one without Sable, thinking that she was more into classical art than modern art, which is what the Reina Sofia boasts as its advantage. The great glass elevator at the front bears its names and the concrete structure makes you think modern instantly. We subjected our bags to yet another X-ray search and bought student tickets with our student cards that made the cashiers wrinkle their noses when they read "University of Alberta", then shrug and wave us through. The first sculpture at the base of the stairs was a recent exhibit that showed statues of men hanging by their necks from the ceiling. Interesting. We proceeded through 60s graphic art, then 80s pop art, then really timeless modern art. Our first Dali spotting was a painting of whirlwind geometrical shapes - a small one, with bulletproof glass encasing it. The guard eyed us sharply as we looked casually at it.

There is simply too much art there for me to describe. We took a break for lunch at 3pm at a cafe just around the corner from Reina Sofia. The Madrid sun beat down on us hard, even under the umbrellas outside. Ross and I had gazpacho with little croutons shaped like baguettes and cheese-veggie toasts. I drank some agua con gas and eventually traded places with Ross, who offered to do so because he had a hat and could be in the sun while I was hatless. We ate a leisurely lunch - forced to do so, really, by the rather leisurely Madrileno service - and eyed the full basket of croutons left by the business man beside us.

"Are you going to take that man's bread?" I asked Ross, who was eyeing the basket more enviously than the rest of us.

"I am not above it," he answered. Matt casually draped his arm over the chair behind him. Then reached and pulled the basket toward our side of the table. Yawning and stretching to check who was watching, he then switched our empty bread basket for the man's full one. No harm done - the man had already left. Ross ate his bread happily. We had dessert; I had tiramisu and we paid. Back to the museum for more art!

The Juan Munoz temporary exhibit consisted of little sculptures of Chinese men, all with the same expression but all with different body language, making each man appear to be doing and expressing something different. Ross caught some excellent moments in this exhibit before we got wary of the guard and left the exhibit. One exhibit was like a living David Lynch movie, complete with men dressed in animal costumes and running around a grand 18th century Victorian mansion. The guard was a pudgy, mean-faced blond woman who perpetually followed me and yelled,"Photograficas SIN FLASH!!" I told her, in a flat voice, that I understood. Even in the adjacent dimly lit room where the animal costumes lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, she followed me to pester me.

"Hay un problema?!" I yelled back. She just glared.

By the end of the day, we were arted out. We walked back from the Reina Sofia, feeling the intense heat rise from the streets and clog the flow of thoughts in our brains. At an ice cream vendor where we stopped to get some water, I noted a collectible Hello Kitty ice cream. Note to self: tell Sable. We rested on the grass in the Parque del Buen Retiro and watched helplessly as strong, tanned, sweaty men with gigantic muscles and no fat ran around in the 45 degree heat of 7pm. My. God.

We walked through the park and took the Metro back to our hostel, where we changed and talked with our roommates before heading out for dinner. Our roommates were from Atlanta, Georgia and Santa Barbara, California.

"Where y'all from?" asked the obviously gay man on the top bunk.

"Canada."

"Canada? No way! I have a cousin from Ontario, Ottawa ... Ottawa, Ontario ... I can never remember the city."

"It's Ottawa, Ontario. Ottawa's the city," Matt replied drily.

"Yeah - y'all know him?" We shook our heads definitively no. Canada is big.

Ross suggested we go to FresCo, which sounded good after a long, hot day. We walked to Puerta del Sol and up a few streets until we found it, nested on a side street. Only tourists occupied this FresCo, but we weren't embarrassed. I mean, here, they had bubblegum pink Sopa de Sandia! Watermelon soup! We loaded up our salad plates and sat down to a long, satisfying dinner before Ross suggested we go to Plaza Oriente before picking up Sable. We stopped instead at the Royal Palace, where the Infantry gates looked like they stretched on forever. Matt said he expected to see ocean past those gates, but we knew Madrid was completely landlocked. Around the other side from the palace, there is a garden, which is more of a dog park/make-out point. Near the entrance, dogs ran around their owners, other owners, us, through hedges, into fountains, and alongside other dogs. It was doggy chaos! The more secluded areas of the garden included couples who "assumed the position". It seems like every couple in Madrid takes on a specific position or some variation of one fundamental technique I will attempt to describe. Essentially, the man sits or lies down on his back and his partner straddles his waist (or ... whatever) with their legs and sits up. We sat at the back of the park, watching three couples simultaneously makeout. Ross' eyes widened and his brows arched.

"Well ... she's not in the position anymore. She's going for acrobatics."

Apparently, the couple behind me were going for gold. All of a sudden, a squat man yelled out, "Senoras y senores! Time to go!" He ushered us out quickly because the square was closing. No bother. We walked to Plaza Oriente and saw patrons get misted inside of a restaurant courtyard. Ahhh Madrid. How clever. There was a musical instrument store, which sold guitars. Tempting. Very tempting.

We took the Metro to the airport to pick up Sable and realized that we did not have any flight information. British Airways? Terminal 1? The magic of texting saved our asses and we met Sable at the terminal. We went back to the hostel to check her in, which was more of an ordeal than our check-in because the receipt printer ran out of paper and the receptionist couldn't fix it. He also only spoke Spanish to Sable, who speaks only English in this country, so gesturing was more help than anything. It was during this receipt-language fiasco that Matt discovered Aquarius and an undying love for all things sodium-ridden was confirmed.

Matt and I went looking for a place to fetch my cafe con leche but could not find one!! How terrible! Even as we walked back to the hostel to see if we could try the cafe just outside our street, we saw that it was dark and they were stacking chairs. For a city that never sleeps, they sure turn in early! I went to bed, sans my caffeine and without a clear picture of why people rave about Madrid so much.

Madrid Makes Me Sick

The morning that Ross almost missed his train, I was sick.

Another leisurely breakfast was had in Center Ramblas. Ross was playing around with pictures on his computer until 10:15am, when we were about to leave for the Metro to the train station. I leaned against the table displaying all of the brochures in the lobby beside Matt. We were waiting for Ross to bring his bags down so that we could escort him to his gate. A man walked in, casually leafing through brochures. I was not particularly concerned about him so much as just concerned about pickpocketing in general, so I shifted the bag that carried my camera and money to my other shoulder. I also did this so as not to obstruct his view of pamphlets. Agitated, he continued to look through pamphlets closer to my side, so I just leaned in closer to Matt's side, who was ... I actually don't remember what he could possibly be doing. Staring at other people, likely.

I forgot about the man leafing through pamphlets momentarily to ask where the heck Ross could be. Matt shrugged. Then, the Pamphlet Man came rushing out of the sliding door of our hostel, rather angry, and looked back at me with flared nostrils. "You're looking for trouble bitch!" He was crossing the street. I looked blankly back. "Yes - you! I'm going to follow you all day!"

Not precisely sure what I did, I turned to Matt who looked back at me as blankly as I had looked at Pamphlet Man. "Did you hear that?" Of course not. His ears are full of cement. Or maybe just hot, Spanish air. I was threatened.

"Oh really? I didn't hear anything!" So much for traveling with male companions being safer.

Ross finally came down and we left for Liceu, the closest Metro station. At the station, however, Ross realized he did not know what stop the train station was at. Apparently, most European cities mark it very clearly on the map, but Barcelona did not. Every station was "Estacion". After much frustration, Ross crumpled up his map and tossed it into the garbage, only to retrieve it again. We could need it. He racked his brain to remember and tried asking someone, who threw their hands into the air as through being arrested, saying they were only a tourist! Ross finally settled on Barcelona-Sants, which he thought was probably the most likely station. When actually down on the platform, he asked a woman in Spanish if his assumption was correct and it was. Good thing, too, because it was 10:42am and his train left at 11:00am.

We chased him up to the station where he left hastily for Madrid. It was in the Liceu station that I realized that I was nauseous. After Ross left, I gave in to dry heaves and a terrible headache. I bought some water, spent some time in the filthy train station bathroom, and sat outside Barcelona-Sants with Matt. A man speaking rapidfire Spanish seemed to need help but Matt explained that he didn't speak Spanish. I said I spoke "un poquito" to which he continued in his rapid Spanish. Lo siento, amigo. No comprendo.

We took a Metro station to Placa de Espana, sat on the steps and watched people before we walked to a little place so that I could have coffee and a croissant. I took a Gravol, just to be sure and watched the morning melt into a familiar, anti-nauseant numbness. Matt finally had paella. The old man who served us told us, sternly, that paella was for just one person. JUST ONE! We nodded, not perturbed because I was sick and not in the mood for steamy seafood. Yet, when he brought out the iron skillet full of tomatoey seafood, he brought me a small place setting anyway. Too bad I never used it.

Afraid of missing the plane, I forced Matt to gather our stuff and we took an Aerobus to the airport. When at the airport, we walked all the way across the airport to Terminal C where our plane to Madrid would be waiting ... in 6 hours. But in my rather numb and incoherent state, it made perfect sense to spend it in the air-conditioned, relatively silent airport. We ate, read Catch-22, did crossword puzzles, and took walks around the airport. When check-in came, we were ready to be in Madrid, but it was a 1.5 hour flight.

Our tickets said Gate 20 to board, but Gate 20 read Mallorca on the screen. A man asked if Gate 20 was for Madrid or Mallorca, and the flight attendant at the gate said that Gate 23 was destined for Madrid. Our tickets were wrong! We moved to Gate 23 and lined up, with no trouble boarding and no troubles during the flight.

Once in Madrid, I was ecstatic to find that the Metro station was linked directly to city center. We picked up our Metro passes and headed to Tirso de Molina station where our hostel would be. On Calle Jesus y Maria, the door to our hostel was locked and armored. Somebody coming out looked us over and said,"I think you're okay to be let in, hey?" and let us into the building. We climbed the first floor and found no office. None on the second. Apparently, the party - and reception - is on the third floor. A scruffy, long-haired man greeted us in Spanish and checked us in without incident. We dropped our stuff off in our room, which was empty when we arrived, and noted how nice and clean everything was. It was nice to have a bathroom inside of our room after Barcelona!

Back outside, we noted that it was 28 degrees at 10:30pm in Madrid. The night was hot but not nearly as humid as Barcelona. We walked in the dark, stopping at a restaurant that housed a bar and lounge in the front and a restaurant in the back. The waiter greeted us and presented us with menus. For lack of any good vegetarian option, I ordered the Andalusian swordfish and Matt had hake, I think. My swordfish was delicious and free of sauces or excessive spice. It was a small portion with a little portion of boiled potatoes and steamed red peppers, which were lovely. I drank my cafe con leche, solidifying my addiction, while Matt sampled some of the Estrella. He successfully asked where the bathrooms were (they were downstairs) and we left, feeling satisfied and happy to have landed.

In the hostel, people were draped all over the bunk beds, deep in sleep, and, perhaps, a bit pissed that we were walking in at 12:30am and disturbing their sleep. All I could think was thank god this hostel has fans!!

"Pea-ches is going to the bea-ches!"

Breakfast was my favourite meal. At Center Ramblas, you get a Bizcocho, which is a sweet, sticky bread that you comes cut in half so that you can spread jam over the insides. There is also large bowls of cereal and refrigerated UHT milk and melba toast to eat, with cold butter and strawberry jam. You could choose your coffee. Cafe con leche, which was my personal favourite, was a strong coffee served with a healthy portion of milk, but Matt and Ross had cappucinos when they had coffee, I think. I watched as a girl pulled a 3kg jar of Nutella from her bag and spread it over everything possible.

This morning was shopping morning. We decided to head to RedMarket, which was a flea market with good bargains, according to my handbook. We had to go to Fontana, which is a stop close to La Sagrada Familia. It was a Sunday, so the traffic was slow and the people were friendly, saying '¡Buenas!' to us in greeting. We walked all along the Carrer de Casp to find this market, but we could not find it. All of a sudden, Matt noticed that there was a store called RedMarket. Inside, there was a sleek black bicycle displayed alongside jeans. The women's finds were not particularly notable - they were of the denim corset category - but the men's clothing was super cute. Ross found a jacket that he did not end up buying but looked really great in. Matt bought a quirky t-shirt with a picture of a brain and a label: Human Brain. I found a dress and an awesome gold cuff bracelet at a store that sold Indian-type wares.

We left and walked down the Paseig de Gracia. Our first stop was Intimissimi where I bought a second bra! Woot! It turns out that the bra I had meant to pack was still at Melissa's apartment when I got home. Go figure. Ross got sweet undies and we continued. Matt bought some shoes while Ross and I debated what the word for yellow was in Spanish. Amarillo, friends. We stopped for lunch at a little cafe that sold orxata. Unfortunately, they were sold out of orxata! I shrugged it off and got a Miller with foccaccia de verduras. We gnoshed on focaccia pizzas then took a picture at the arc de triomf made from recycled materials. We saw all the major designers on the Paseig, including Louis Vuitton, Valentino, Yves St. Laurent, Chanel, Bvlgari, Dior, etc, etc. I was tantalized and tortured by such haute couture! We stopped at the more shoppable places, including what looked to be equivalent to a Chapters. I bought a book in Catalan and Ross abandoned a book that would have helped us: Catalan for Dummies. We continued. The huge trend in Europe is yellow skinny pants. Actually, any skinny jeans, especially the really skinny, slightly short, zippered at the ankle ones. The ones that I just cannot wear! I bought Melissa a pink tank at Mango from the Paulo Coelho collection and a tank and necklace for me. We walked past El Corte Inglés, the major department store in Spain, and then from Plaça Catalunya to La Rambla and back to the hostel. It was still early in the day and very hot! We stopped to drop off our purchases and pick up our beach wares.

Off to the beaches! Down La Rambla we went and then veered to the left, where we walked down the promenade. The day was beautifully sunny and nice and breezy. It would be my first real day at a real beach! We continued and tried numerous times to find an entrance to the beaches. Our first attempt was stopped by the Spanish naval guard. Our second attempt was thwarted by fences, which Ross' manly shoulders simply moved aside, but we were blocked again by more fences that could not be moved. On the way to the actual beach, we did see the talking car, which promised a tour of Barcelona literally by your car, which would tell you about the sites you passed as you drove. When we refused, the man said, "Oh my god, lady!" He just couldn't believe I wouldn't go for the talking car.

Eventually, we did find the beach, where the famous boxes lay. Families were crammed into the tiny sand space between the shores of the Mediterranean and the boardwalk, which was crowded with people watching over the beachgoers. Little fountains were scattered so that you could wash the sand off of your body and feet. I sat, enjoying the sun, the sounds, the smells, and the sights of the beach. Ross had bought licorice at a supermarket and shared some with us. We lay, tanning, before the boys decided to swim to the man-made rock formation that stood to block the waves from crashing on the shore. I watched as whole children were swallowed by tides, their heads bobbing up at some indeterminate distance from shore. I squinted, trying to spot the boys and take pictures with my camera, but I failed. Epically.

As the boys were coming up onto shore, two bleach blondes walked in front of my view. They weren't particularly attractive women, with broad chests and rounded stomachs, but they were blondes nonetheless. A swarm of men came down from the sand behind me, from the sand in front of me, from the sides. They all came and wrapped their arms, their bodies, everything around these women, asking for pictures and kisses and names. The girls just giggled, happy to be the center of attention, and made futile attempts to bat off the attentions of them. They continued across the beach in a great swarm, all legs and arms and pelvises. The boys missed it completely.

The weather turned colder and windy. The sun was gone, so we decided it was time for gelato. Ross sleuthed out a place without stuff on their gelato and he was right! It was half the price of the place we had been going to for gelato. I had crema catalana flavour, since I didn't get a chance to have the real dessert while in Barcelona. We went back to the hostel to shower out the sand from our bodies, then ended up at FresCo, which had been advertised in our hostel.

FresCo was a restaurant that served mostly salads and some hot food. The main attraction was that it served all-you-can-eat buffets for only 9,95 euros on the weekdays. We descended on the salad bar, taking far too much for our stomachs, and ate for a while. There was the traditional "salad", but there was also pasta salad, gazpacho, hummus, fresh tomato wedges, fresh olives, bright pink watermelon soup - everything we wanted and didn't think we could get in Spain. We ate and laughed and tried to figure out the name of a song that was stuck in Ross' head. We talked about science for the first time on the trip!! Epic times, friends. Epic times at Fresco.

After putting his still-wet laundry in his compression sack (big mistake!), Matt packed away all of his items in preparation for leaving the next day. My laundry wasn't quite dry yet either, but I opted to pack it the next morning instead of that night. Ross had finished his laundry and we decided to go for a walk around town. It was late but the city was still alive. We had not yet had a chance to see the Universitat de Barcelona, which was of great interest to us young academics bitten by the travel bug. After walking around in circles for a bit, we came up on the shadiest circle you could ever find - with construction tarps put up around what appeared to have been a walk way. It was dark, the streets were not lit in this area, and only a woman with a broom was outside. She was super nice and offered to give us directions if we could understand some Spanish. She told us to walk up one street and continue for only five minutes and we would find it.

Her directions proved semi-accurate. Either the Barcelonians are super fast walkers, or us fat Canadians are super slow because it took a good 15-20 minutes for us to find the University. It was empty but well-lit compared to the areas we had been walking around previously. Ross went on a photo bliss and vowed to find out what he could take there. We walked around the main building, taking pictures, talking and joking. The night was still and beautiful. There were teenagers in a square under some palm trees doing God knows what. We walked past them, down an aisle of cafes, still bustling with people drinking coffee and other beverages. We walked all the way down the Paseig de Gracia (again) to Catalunya, and then down La Rambla. It took forever, but the walk was leisurely and indulgent. We were breathing in our last breaths of Barcelona night. Then to bed, for one last night in the city that truly never really sleeps.

¡Gaudí!

Matt and I got up early the next day so that we could go back to the Parque de la Ciutadella (because I really wanted a picture of those sea turtles!), but it was cloudy and the turtles were gone. We walked around and tried to exit off of what looked to be a terraced exit, but we discovered that it was just a fenced part within the park. Walking around the fence, we found our way out. We walked back to La Boquería, which was bustling with activity. Inside the market, there was a stand selling just dried fruit! Row upon row of dried fruit, including dried bananas, apples, kiwis, apricots, plums, peaches, cherries ... everything and more! There were stands for chocolate, meat, pasta, salads, fresh fruit and vegetables, pizza, necklaces, jewellery, and fish. There was music and there were pickpockets - it was everything promised in all of those Visit Spain brochures.

We walked up to a prepared pasta stand, which had lots of pasta salads available. We chose a pasta salad with veggies and olives and some fish in it. I asked for a kilo, not sure how much that was. The woman frowned and asked, "Half a kilo?" I shook my head and said one. "One kilo?" Yes, we nodded. She started scooping into the perfect sized container, so we were happy. Then she picked one of the same and told us that she would split the kilo between the two containers! Okay! Just half, I said. Point five, I said, when she held her hand up to her ear. "Five kilos?!" she asked, flabbergasted. No, no! Half a kilo! Half! "Ahhh!" She wrapped the container she had packed and handed it to us. For a cool 6 euro, Matt and I had more food than we wanted. I bought some cut fresh fruit and we headed back to the hostel.

Sitting at the table in the kitchen was Ross! He was typing on his computer, so we sat and ate lunch, watching the Simpsons as we ate. All of the characters have similar voices when dubbed in Spanish, EXCEPT for Homer, who sounded high-pitched and nasal in Spanish! We had a good laugh, while looking up the directions to La Sagrada Familia. I stuffed myself with Spanish goodness and we left for La Sagrada Familia, which had its own metro stop (rightly so).

Once outside the station, I stood in awe of the great spires created by Gaudí's imagination. It was incredible. The outside looked as though it was crusted with seaweed, but a closer inspection revealed classical scenes and beautiful sculptures. The inside was bare because it was under construction, and the line to go up the spires was far too long for my tastes. Plus, I had just begun my Europe On a Budget scheme, in which I only brought 25 euros with me for the day, so a visit to the Sagrada Familia had already robbed me of over half my day's budget. Instead, we bought the combined ticket and ended up going to Park Guëll to see the Casa Museu Gaudí after La Sagrada Familia. There are no words, really, for La Sagrada Familia. You just have to see it.

We walked through the museum in the basement, taking pictures of the construction over the years, learning about the meaning of the Sudoku looking grids outside, and looking at Gaudí's death mask. After what may have been too little pictures on my part, we headed to Park Guëll.

Here's the thing about Park Guëll: my handbook said that we could get off the Metro at Lesseps or Vallarca, which is near the far north of Barcelona. We got off at the farther stop, thinking that we could make our way to the closer stop and take the Metro home from there. Once off at Vallarca, we walked basically back to Lesseps and walked uphill for a good 30 minutes. Most of it was covered by awesome outdoor escalators, which I think should be constructed in more areas around the world, but some of it was all in the gluteus maximus because we had to hoof it ourselves up the hill. It was all worth it at the top, though. The view was amazing. The spires of La Sagrada Familia dwarfed the whole city. A cool, um, liberal house was spotted from the top.

We walked down, having fun in the great tree-like columns of the walkways and the great pillars in the hollow rotunda. We took pictures, sat around, joked while tourists swarmed the lizard sculpture at the entrance to the park. We had worked our way from the back down, so we were seeing the major tourist sites last. I saw a woman dressed up as that stupid lizard taking pictures with people, so I asked Matt to take a picture with me. She sat a lizard head on my head and took a picture, after I paid her 2.50 euro, of course. After a photo blitz, we walked up to Casa Museu Gaudí, which was relatively subdued compared to the amazing, distinctive architecture that he created across the city. The house was small, but not without its eccentric touches, including a great wing-backed chair made of smooth wood and an interesting seating arrangement in the sitting room. I would have missed the sculpture in the ceiling at the top of the stairs if it weren't for Matt's sharp eye.

Then we walked all the way down the hill again and all the way to Casa Batlló, where the roof looks like sea glass and the balconies look like waves. It was too expensive to go inside and Sable had recommended that we not spend the money, so we contented ourselves to take photos like good little tourists and walk away. We walked all the way down the Paseig de Gracia, looking for the last house in the discordant trio, and Gaudí's first apartment building. I don't think we ever found it ... I mean, we were on the street, but I don't think the building we ended up taking pictures of was really the building we were looking for.

It didn't matter. We were hungry and beat. Along the Paseig, we found a tavern that was completely empty and quite cheap. Ross bought patatas bravas and I had the tortilla de patatas with tomato toast. Literally, that is fresh tomatoes smeared on toast! Matt had some kind of satisfying meat dish. Matt and I had a beer while Ross downed his traditional Sprite and we marvelled at how cheap the bill was! The man who served us was a little Chinese-looking man who was very friendly and in need of more customers. If I could, I would go back today.

From dinner, we walked to toward the Arc de Triomf, taking pictures of that and what could have been another Statue of Liberty ... then on to the Parque de la Ciutadella for the second time that day. We didn't mind because it was one of our favourite places in the city. We lazed around the great fountain, enjoying the warm, insect-free weather. A lady on a bike asked Ross for the time and he gave it in Spanish. Matt opened the map so that we could plan our tomorrow and a bird in the tree above pooped on it! We discarded the map and headed back to the hostel for a rest.

I wrote more postcards and slept for a bit. After a couple of hours, we went out to the same place we went for gelato last night, where Ross advised me that places without 'stuff' on their gelato were the cheapest. He's so sagely! We walked for a bit and called it a night.

"It's a German University."

Barcelona was hot and humid, as expected. We took the Aerobus to Plaça Catalunya and took the Metro from Catalunya to Liceu (which we would later find was not much of a walk, let alone a Metro ride ...). The cars were airconditioned and cool, while the stations were warm and stuffy. We came up onto La Rambla, disoriented and surrounded by a hoard of people, all of which looked like potential pickpockets. After some wandering around in circles and intense map-staring, we found our way to Carrer de L'Hospital and, eventually, to Center Ramblas.

The hostel looks a bit like a rec center, and maybe smells like one too, but the staff were friendly. Unfortunately, the people occupying our beds in the 10-person dorm had not yet checked out, so he put us in a 3-person suite instead. In the room, we found another hot humid place, but it was clean and it had large lockers that only required a loan of 2 euros to access. As long as you brought the key back at the end of the day, you would obtain your 2 euros back. We dropped our stuff off and headed out toward La Rambla, where we stopped at McDonald's for some lunch. Inside, it was airconditioned and had three levels of places to sit. Plus, all of the workers wore t-shirts that read,"Hamburger University" on them. Swanky.

After lunch, we headed in the direction of La Ribera, which is lined with cool little retail shops and bustling with people. We eventually reached El Parque de la Ciutadella, which has three historical buildings inside of it, a few awesome fountains, and a lot of places for people to run, jump, play, sleep, and just chill. We walked, marvelling at how cool it was in the shade, how lovely the fountains were, how large and imposing the Catalonian castle was. The sky was a bright, cobalt blue and the sun was hot. We rested every few minutes by my request and eventually headed back to our hostel so that I could pick up my camera.

Out again, we headed back to La Ribera to visit the Museu de Xocolata, whose entrance is on the side of what looks to be an abandoned warehouse. Inside, however, the glass doors lead you to a stunning display of fine, gourmet, local and imported chocolate products in a glass display case that doubles as their cash register and reception. The lady asked us for the admission price, which I think was a little over eight euros, and then handed us a chocolate bar as an admission ticket and walked us through a turnstile. Inside, everything smelled decadently sweet. The chocolate sculptures were delicate and impressive, the history more extensive that I had imagined! Here, we saw sculptures of La Sagrada Familia, famous soccer players from FC Barcelona, Homer Simpson, The Enterprise, and Wall-E! I bought some chocolate to bring home (and to eat), packed it in my purse, and we headed out again. We walked the winding side streets around La Rambla before returning to our hostel for a nap. Matt slept, while I waited for him to wake up, until he didn't wake up and I slept too. He woke me up, wanting to know if we should go out. Reluctantly, I agreed.

Outside again, we walked the side streets to look for cheap tapas. We settled on a nearly abandoned side street with a tucked away restaurant inside. The waiter pointed out dishes for us and tried to communicate what they were in slow Catalan. For the most part, I understood and tried to translate. In the end, we took his recommendations blindly and enjoyed a nice meal of tapas and cold drinks. The cocido serrano was a thick stew of chickpeas flavoured with the regional specialty (and "garnish" that even the vegetarian dishes could not escape) jamon serrano and it was hearty and delicious.

After dinner, we walked back to our hostel where I curled up to write postcards. We wanted to go to Schilling, which is a place notorious for housing JUST FOREIGNERS. It would be like partying with people in our hostel, but not in our hostel, which was better. Instead, we ended up a plaza, where Matt bought me a red wine that I could not finish, and we walked around, finishing the night with gelato.

We walked back via La Rambla, dodging the partiers, curving around the people captivated by the moving statues and people still buying wares. Something caught my right eye - a little man, with a tired, tanned face. He had white hair and leathery skin. His shirt was off and it looked like he walked around in a bubble because people were walking a wide radius around him. He looked perfectly content, rolling in his bubble down La Rambla. As we approached, I noticed that he was completely naked! He wore only his faded, black tribal tattoos down his arms, stomach, and around his waist. O Barcelona! You don't disappoint.

Paris, we hardly knew ye

At 10:30am, we met Elise at Opera, from which we took the Metro to Père Lachaise cemetery. The cemetery contains the graves of such famous people as Oscar Wilde and Molière, none of which Matt and I found. Instead, we wandered the upper side of the hill, strolling through graves of ballerinas, aristocrats, Chinese-French, Auschwitz prisoners, leaders of the French Communist Party, commanders of Napoleon's Legion of Honor, and famous anthropologists with very blank tombstones. It was a beautiful day, with not too much sun and not too much wind.

From there, we went back to Opera, where we had some crêpes and a drink before heading out separately. Sable and Ross went to see the highly recommended Latin Quarter (even if they didn't know what the Sarbonne was!!!) while Matt, Elise, and I went to les Galeries Lafayette for some uber shopping. We wandered the mall, marvelling at the brands (and corresponding prices) before settling on buying things as less expensive places like H&M and Mango. Everybody found something, including Elise who was looking for a functional but stylish purse! After shopping, it was time for the Louvre.

Outside the Louvre, people were washing their tired feet in the fountains, which I am sure is not allowed but most tourists don't care. Inside the Louvre, Matt and I saw the whole Denon and Sully wings, rushing through the exhibits, since we only had two hours. Benoit met us at 8pm, before we made a mad dash for the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Etruscan exhibit. Oh the Etruscans! How I wish I could have been a part of your civilization! We met everyone at the inverted triangle (somehow of Dan Brown fame in North America) and wandered the gift shop. Benoit helped me buy international stamps and we were off to the Latin Quarter for dinner.

At Chez Clement, I ordered the set menu of tarte de Provence, a harmony of berry sorbets served in shot glasses and finished with a Pocky stick, and some carbonated water. Elise and Benoit had to leave early to catch their train to Plaisirs (which they did not end up catching!) and we stuck around to finish our meal then get lost on our way back to the hostel. At the end of the day, I was glad to not have to carry my terrible Metro card around and I was glad to be leaving France for another country. The first two days did not solve my dilemma because I was feeling quite satisfied with the city, feeling as though I had covered most of the major sights to see and did not have to return after this trip. At reception, the man called us a taxi only after we agreed to say Charles de Gaulle in a proper French accent. Go figure.

At 5:15 a.m., we left promptly for the airport. Sable was off to Helsinki, Matt and I were off to Barcelona, and Ross was taking the train to Toulouse. In the airport, we could not find the easyjet terminal, since a little sign told us they were changing gates. When we reached the terminal, I had forgotten to check my sunscreen and a sour faced, thin lady wagged her index finger at me while pursing her lips. Then she tossed the sunscreen back into my bin while putting her hands into prayer position and asking me to spread my arms. She then passed her hands through my cleavage! I guess French women hide things there more than other women ... at the X-ray, the man picked up my sunscreen from the bin and made THE SAME FACE WITH THE SAME WAGGING FINGER to scold me for it. I told them, in a not so calm voice, to throw it out for God's sakes. A little bit of fruit and waiting and we were gone from Paris for a little over a week.

Vite, vite!

It was my second time in Paris and I was having a dilemma. My last visit to Paris was only two days in length and had given me the impression that Paris was a dirty, cold, hard city full of people who did not want you to speak their language and who could care less for your comfort or well being. This time around, I wanted to get the impression that Paris was a romantic, beautiful city, full of wonders undiscovered.

We arrived at 8:30am and were met promptly by Elise, who lives in Plaisirs. I bought postcards at Relay, where the clerks handed me free Sweet Gum for my purchase and smiled at my strange, Canadian accent. We lined up for Metro tickets and a ticket into Paris. If you are coming from Charles de Gaulle, you require a ticket to get into Paris (8,40 euros) and Metro tickets to get around Paris (1,14 euros each). Naively, we bought a two day pass and tickets to get into the city.

The train ride in was pleasant, showing you ivy-covered brick walls and small neighborhoods as you whizzed past them all into the heart of downtown. Elise took us to our hostel on Rue Caulaincourt where we finally met Ross. We dropped our bags off and headed to L'Arc de Triomphe for our first whole day in Paris. The Arc cost 9 euros for admission into the "museum" and we climbed 276 steps to get to the top. It was our first exposure to a series of neverending windy stairs, but not our last. We spent some time taking pictures at the top of the arc, sans Ross and Elise who had already seen the Paris sights over the weekend.

We then took a leisurely stroll down the Champs-Elysées, stopping at an Orange store to buy a phone for Matt so that he could call his parents. Meanwhile, I stole into a candy store across the street, marvelling at all of the elaborate sweets! Chocolate cupcakes with rose petal icing, macarons of every color and flavor imaginable, strawberry almond tarts - it was incredible! They even made perfume that smelled of their best-selling sweets in those old-fashioned bottles with a squeeze bulb!

At the end of our Champs-Elysées tour, we went inside the Petit Palais for free. Here, we discovered the Europeans' penchant for handing out actual tickets for free admission. We rested in the courtyard, taking pictures.

I don't remember exactly when I started having troubles with my Metro ticket, but my troubles were many. First, I simply could not get through the gates because my ticket was "invalid". I had my ticket recharged three times, I was let in through the "baby gate" (the gate where moms with strollers are let in) once, and I got stuck between the turnstile and an electric door once. Even the cool protective case couldn't save me from demagnetization. I am just one giant, human magnet.

Next stop was Saint-Michel and Notre Dame. I had been in both churches before and didn't feel the need to stand in the large, crazy line for another look. Matt and Sable went inside Saint Michel while Elise, Ross, and I walked around looking for a drink and/or sandwiches. Perhaps the most frustrating part of travelling with other people is the indecision. Looking for a place to eat is like getting gutted alive. This particular search for sandwiches was not as painful as searches in other cities, but it is something you do not need to worry about when travelling alone. We finally just settled on buying a drink and sitting by a fountain, resting our legs and feet. When Matt and Sable finally met us, we were ready to go and get something to eat. We all got sandwiches at a shop near the Notre Dame. I could not finish and saved my sandwich for later, along with all of the meals Air Canada had bestowed on me.

The last time I saw Notre Dame, it was virtually empty. It was undergoing restoration and cleaning, so I was thoroughly impressed to see the church up and running for its peak tourist season. It was bustling with people, including Catholics on bended knee, children lighting candles, tourists resting in the dark, cool inside. Everything - the ceilings, the flooring, the supports - was elaborate. It filled me with wonder and warmth.

From Notre Dame, we walked to an ice cream shop that Ross and Elise raved about. Canelle - that is the flavor that is so amazing and which I did not try. Instead, I tried the creamy, nutty kind of ice cream, watching as blond-haired, blue-eyed German schoolchildren bickered, laughed, and took pictures of Matt from behind. I was tired and sick from the motion-sickness patch (ironically), so we headed back to the hostel, where we checked in and I almost collapsed from exhaustion. The man at the reception desk was a dark-skinned, grinning man with a perfect French accent and an even more perfect English accent, making me think that perhaps I wasn't hearing my French accents correctly anymore. He was jovial and welcoming, and, though not particularly quick, he made the wait somewhat pleasant.

After a nap, I was awakened by a call to the room asking whether or not I had paid for the room and how I had done so. In fact, I had paid with a 100 euro bill! Reluctantly, I trudged downstairs to clear up the matter which merely entailed a screw-up at reception. Apparently, he had entered my payment as credit card on the receipt and could not find an authorization slip for the transaction, which never transpired since I paid him in cash. I was up, so we went to a cafe called Le Café qui parle for some dinner, where I had poached eggs on asparagus in a creamy mustard dressing with a crème brulée de cassis for dessert.

Then, sweet, sweet sleep.