Munich Day 2

I'm taking most of today to update the blog since it was in desperate need of some love. I'll be going through and correcting each entry's date and hopefully updating/correcting as much content as I can. Not that anyone will want to go through and read it all at the end...but even some of the early entries should get attention. If you are so inclined, check them out again. This won't be finished until tomorrow, though, so wait a bit. [update: So maybe not yet. I'm tired and I don't want to write anymore.]

Andy is hoping to drive his way to Munich tonight in some beater sedan. Don't break down man. You do not want to be stuck in the French or German countryside. There's nothing out there.

Three random things about today:
1. I ate a delicious kebab burrito thing. I have no idea what it's called since I pointed to its picture at the kebab place. Whatever it was, it was good. Middle-Eastern/Mexican food? It just might work...

2. I couldn't extend my stay in my hotel downstairs with the receptionist, who was being a huge *expletive deleted*. I had checked availability online so I knew there were rooms. After returning to check out/check in (thanks Expedia), the lady freaks out and runs away before coming back defeated with my reservation. I flashed her a smile and walked back to my room. Why are people like this? What ever happened to peace, love, and understanding?

3. Two cleaning ladies came into my room despite the "Do Not Disturb" sign. Instead of trying to communicate why they were there they just went off in rapid-fire German. After I finally came up "Nein sprecken deutsche" or something to that effect (I think that means I don't speak German) they stopped and started to leave. I motioned that it was OK to come and clean since I felt bad. One of them had been really animated and made it seem like this was important. I was shirtless, which may or may not add anything to the story. They came back in, and I went back to writing at the computer. After three minutes or so, they left. I turned around as one came right back in. I saw her walk into the bathroom and walk right out. When I looked in there I saw they hadn't touched anything. WTF mate?

Random Thought:
Comments are nice.

Munich Day 1

Today was a fairly miserable travel day. I spent all day in airports or trains. I didn't take any pictures since the camera is out of battery and I was too tired to do anything about it. This is my second day in a row of getting up before 6AM. As a result, I'm not exactly in a wonderful mood.

It looks like Andy is stuck in Paris due to Bastille day. Déja vu anyone? I'm in Munich all by my lonesome for the time being.

I don't like not being able to speak the language. This is the first place where communication has been a real issue. At least I have a cheap hotel with a great internet connection. I finally got some great food too. Yeah, it was just a huge hunk of meat and beer, but it was delicious. Sleep time.

Random Thought:
I'm done with traffic noise. Seriously, done.

Random Thought #2:
I finally got my Federal and State tax rebates. Woo! OK, so maybe I was a little late in filing...but money is still money.

Pamplona Day 2

This picture just about sums up this morning at 5AM. I'm in the background up on the wooden fence. The drunk guy in the foreground has no idea what's going on or where he is. At least I had some cereal. The running doesn't actually start until 8AM though so that meant lots of waiting. By the end I could barely sit, my butt hurt so badly. I ended up sitting on my hamstrings instead of my glutes and those barely work now too.

Let me get this out of the way. I should have run. Yeah, I know this was one of the most violent runs in history. People got gored left and right. Some of the bulls turned around and started going right into the crowd. The crowd can be more dangerous and unpredictable than the bulls. Even with all that, I should have run. Life lesson #745: No regrets. True, I wouldn't have been able to see much but I would have at least run with the bulls. Oh well, I still got to see it from the best possible vantage point, even if I can't walk.

Aside:
At 5AM you truly appreciate what it means to party. The morning showed the San Fermin festival at its alcoholic peak. This is the end game for alcohol consumption, an alcoholic's heaven. This thing lasts for TWO WEEKS. I challenge anyone to last for the full two weeks and live to tell about it.



Back to the running: Here guards clear out the path. Note the people packed on the fence. There really isn't much room to watch, hence the early morning.



This guy tried to support himself on this pole using only his arms. As to be expected he didn't quite make it...



The ever-important medics. They were positioned every few feet. Ambulances were stationed at every possible exit. The running is not for the faint of heart (although plenty of people were running on liquid courage).



There they go! The animals in front with the bells (vaquillas) aren't bulls. They are simply there to lead the bulls to the arena. The bulls generally just follow them but stop to gore any annoying runner that pulls their tail or otherwise acts the fool.



Here's the only other picture that came out with any bulls in it. Most of the runners we saw just chickened out and ran up to the fence or under it as soon as the bulls came. Hey, those horns are [WARNING! GRAPHIC] sharp.

Once the running was over, it was nap time. We got up, I typed some more (this is time consuming), and it was time for the bull fights (Las Corridas).

Watching was a struggle for me. The fights (if you can call them that, it's a totally one sided affair) are a dichotomy of brutality and grace. When the matador is in his element, every movement timed perfectly, I couldn't help but be entranced. The crowd chants and sings while several bands take turns playing a mix of traditional and newer songs*. Every step of the fight proceeds with the traditional pomp and ceremony. This spell is broken quite easily, however, when the matador stabs the bull ten times in the neck without successfully killing it. The bull struggles to stand as its blood is pouring down its neck and out its mouth. The crowd is impatiently whistling their displeasure at the matador's impotence. He is the killer after all. He is expected to kill with one swift strike.

*They even played that f***ing Journey song. Really? Really...there's just no excuse for that.

Three of the bulls came out lame in some way or other. One appeared to break its leg on the first charge. Another came out limping and spasming as if it had a spinal injury. These were immediately taken off and replaced with newer, fitter bulls. When the third injured one emerged to the crowd's further displeasure there were no substitutes left and the killing went on as usual.


Here's a sample bullfight in a picture time line:



The arena was absolutely packed with raucous fans who obviously know a lot about this sport. They even talk about it as if it were a sport. We overheard a woman's cell phone conversation after the fight where she recounted the whole affair in a detailed play-by-play as if it were a football match. Disturbing.



The bull emerges. These are impressive animals, bred for this exact purpose. The streamer has been stuck into it's back causing much annoyance. I can't imagine the absurd crowd noise helps the animal feel any calmer.



Some pretend matadors called banderilleros come out with pink capes and herd the bull over to a large armored horse supporting a mounted spearman called a picador. The whole herding process feels cowardly since they constantly run away and hide behind wooden slabs set up in front of the main wall. The picador then whistles at the bull, causing it to charge his horse while he repeatedly pokes it's shoulder area with his spear. A ribbon of blood starts flowing down the bull's side and thus begins the process of weakening.



Next comes the banderillas, which are barbed, frilly sticks, which each banderillero thrusts into the bull's back before trying coolly walk away. Usually the slow walk breaks into a quick scurry to safety as the bull tries to ruin whoever just poked him. In this picture, the banderillero poses with his implements.



Finally, the matador emerges and works his magic, coming unsettlingly close to the bull at each pass. He urges the bull on and suddenly strikes flamboyant poses before shaking his cape at the bull. Every so often, he turns to the crowd (turning his back to the bull) for applause. He finally tries to kill the bull in one sword strike that runs clean through its neck. It doesn't always go so smoothly. Here, the matador is on his fifth or sixth try with the banderilleros playing interference.



Once the bull is dead (often with the help of a well placed dagger when the sword doesn't work out), it is dragged around the arena and away. Much cheering ensues.



As a final note, there was one hilarious victory for a particular bull who got the better of "El Cid", as that particular matador is known. It ended with El Cid's pants getting ripped and his butt cheek remaining exposed for the rest of the fight. I wish I had captured El Cid getting tossed but I couldn't turn the camera on and snap that fast. Note the bloody cheek. I guess El Cid got the last laugh though after killing the bull...

I also have many videos of the event, including the Journey song. They are too big to upload (I think) so you'll have to see me when I get back if you want your own personal viewing.

Pamplona Day 1

This day started with my mom and I staying in most of the day to take care of some logistics. Namely, how the hell were we going to get out of Pamplona? We drove down from France, which was easy and convenient, but the car was due back soon, leaving the option of bus, train, or plane. As one might imagine, after a festival that attracts thousands of foreign visitors, pickins were slim. Any attempt to get to Paris during Bastille Day to hang out with Andy was near impossible. There was simply no way to get there for under €1,000 (at 1.3 euros to the dollar, things look even worse) and without having to go through Prague. It looks like I'll just fly straight to Munich and wait for Andy there. That also means that we have to get up for a 7:20AM flight from Pamplona to Barcelona on Saturday. Ouch. My mom also took the time to get some time sensitive work done while I updated the blog and we were ready to party.

My mom is flying home for a few days to take care of a case and then flying back. I think she's crazy but she really wants to finish the trip. I'll be on my own with Andy and friends though, so that should end up working out well.



We get in the San Fermín spirit. My shirt doesn't exactly fit the standard look but hey, sun's out guns out (right Jordan?). It stays light out until 10:30PM which makes the nights perfect for staying out. Speaking of light...FINALLY PERFECT WEATHER. It was sunny and 30°C (about 85°F) all day. It looks to stay that way the whole time we're here. It's about time.



These dudes play wooden pegs on a large set of wooden/stone/ceramic slabs (imagine a huge bizarro wooden xylophone). It was more akin to drumming (complex rhythms and slight variations in tone) than traditional melody based music and thoroughly enjoyable. I have to figure out what it's called.



I'm standing where the bulls enter the arena at the end of the run (called el encierro in Spanish). It's empty, but not for long.



Agorophobics/Demophobics/Claustrophobics should just stay home. It's like this EVERYWHERE. As the night progresses, so does the percentage of intoxicated folk, until a reset at around 8AM. When I say reset, I mean a reset back to the stable 25%. People are drinking beer, wine, or wine and coke (really popular) at all hours. You can even buy wine bottles from bars to go. The most popular carrying option is one of any large plastic jugs that can be easily refilled. Some bars even advertise alcohol by the liter ("Buy one liter, get the second free"). I guess not much has changed since Ernest Hemingway's day...



Doneski. I'm curious how many people sleep (read: pass out) outside every night.

The night really got going when we tried to find a place to eat dinner. Most people just grab tapas from the myriad of bars in and around the festival area. Finding a place to grab real food (not fried or otherwise unhealthy bar food -- not that it isn't great drunk food...but just not for dinner) was tough. We happened upon a restaurant hidden under a bar. The only catch was that we would have to sit next to someone. As it turned out, these two old Basque guys came and sat next to us. I don't know what I was expecting, but they were ready to get after it in true "creepy old dude" fashion. One was relatively quiet, while the other one made up for it by grabbing every waitress who walked by and telling her how beautiful she was before demanding a drink or other service. After a few rounds of this, the waitresses began cautiously shifting to the other side of the room anytime they passed by. As the restaurant got fuller though, he caught a few more, ultimately leading to a series of angry exchanges that culminated with the waitresses ganging up on him and demanding under no uncertain terms that he immediately desist. At one point, he told me how much he enjoyed the Basque game of pelota (i.e. fronton) and insisted that we come along and watch it with him after dinner. For some reason we agreed. Creepiness notwithstanding, this guy wasn't so bad. On the way to the arena he tackled a little kid when attempting to play soccer with him, verbally assaulted the African and Asian groups selling trinkets by luring them in close then shouting in their faces, and otherwise made an ass of himself. OK, maybe he was a bit over the top. It's a good thing we were a carafe of sangría and several drinks deep.




This game, similar to handball, is played in teams with a front and back player, each team taking turns hitting the small, hard rubber ball against the front wall. The strategy is not dissimilar to squash, except these guys use their hands as the racket and take monstrous swings. Not only was it fun to watch because of the player skill but the particular match we watched ended in a giant upset. Since everyone is betting during the whole match, the place gets nuts. The atmosphere is unlike any sporting event I have ever been to. If it weren't for the three packs of cigarettes I smoked second-hand, it would have been one of the greatest sporting events I have ever been to.

To see the running of the bulls meant a 5am wake up time so we decided to take the three hours of sleep instead of trying to stay up.

Random Thought:
What's with the pseudo-mullet hair style for guys and girls? Why would that ever become popular?

Random Thought #2:
People commonly walk around totally drenched in wine. I'm not sure what that's about but it's kinda funny. The best part is that most of them don't have new white clothes so they get to sport splotchy red and white for the rest of their stay. Like I said before, nothing matches this place.

Random Thought #3:
I hate popular music. I don't always hate the music itself but how can people listen to the same 30 songs ALL THE TIME? Is it like this all over Europe? The US isn't any better but I was hoping for a change at least.

Random Thought #4:
For how many people sport t-shirts of metal bands, I have yet to find one rock or metal station on the radio. One of these days I have to travel around Scandinavia...

Hossegor to Pamplona

This morning, after a quick breakfast, we headed down to check the surf. It then proceeded to rain. Dammit!



Here are the few brave souls who decided to try it. I mean, they came all the way out here just to surf. Why not try and catch a few waves? Oh yeah, because it sucks, it's cold, and the waves are breaking in two feet of water. It's hard to capture action shots with the point and shoot digital camera so I captured some dude's leg sticking straight up. I have no idea what was happening before this.

There was no point in sticking around in the rain so we headed south toward Biarritz, having no idea what was in store for us there.



The place is absolutely absurd. It's over the top fancy with expensive hotels, shops, and restaurants all right on the beach. The break would have been great on a longboard, and a few kids were ripping on their 5'8"s. Unfortunately, slow waist-high waves don't quite generate enough power to push my 190 pound frame on a short board. I should have rented a long board and given it a go...oh well. It was just as well to watch (although I can't wait to get back to Cali and get some swell *fingers crossed for August*).



There were only two decent surfers out. These little groms (buddies apparently, I saw them load up all their stuff into a beater van) were pulling out some impressive roundhouses where all I saw was slow mush without much face. It's good to be a little surfer.



This photographer convinced these little girls (and their parents) that he was going to take some photos of them. The little girls were more than content to have him primp their hair and make them feel like models. Either he's found a bizarre niche market (what little girl doesn't want to pretend she's a model?) or he's just a perve.



They don't beat around the bush here. You want fancy? We got "Fancy".

Once we finished with Biarritz, we headed down to the road into Spain and on to Pamplona. The border crossing was a cinch. Once in Spain, we flew down the free ways.



We were taking tunnels at Mach 9.



Another weird language? First it was Gaelic and now it's Basque. Southern France and Northern Spain make up the Basque region. The language involves lots of z's and x's and is otherwise impossible to make out. Technically, it's a language isolate (totally distinct from any known language) which I learned a great deal about in Linguistics 110 this past fall. Thanks Harvard. I knew you would come in handy one day.



FEET!



Oh my god, we're driving in the middle of the busiest avenue in Pamplona! Is this even legal? 50 points per pedestrian you say?

While technically legal, we were the ONLY car driving straight into the middle of the main plaza in Pamplona. Insanity. Drunk people were everywhere.

By the grace of God, we somehow found a hotel nearby (right during the festival of San Fermin -- the running of the bulls and all that) which should have been impossible. Feeling altogether out of place since we weren't wearing red and white (probably 99% of people here participate in this thing, it's impressive), we went low key with the evening and didn't explore all that much. Getting to bed was another matter since the noise continued all night. Thank goodness I had saved the ear plugs from the airplane. Gotta thank my mom for that tip.

Drive from Bordeaux to Hossigor (surfing?!)

Ready to jump on the bus with the backpacks? *meh*

We rented another car this morning after a brief bus trip to the airport with the intention of heading down the coast. The sun was shining brightly and temperatures were good, in the upper 20s. Great success! I was definitely ready for some pristine beaches and some (hopefully) good waves.

Of course, right as we left the city we hit this:



It was absolutely pouring, the worst weather we've had all trip.



Is it too much to ask for one nice day? Rain makes me a sad panda.

When it finally let up enough to see out the windows, we hit the most amazing sight of the whole journey so far, the Dune. This is the sand dune to end all sand dunes. It sits right off the road and rises out of nowhere, a literal mountain of sand.



Yes, those little specks are people. While it's visible from the road, you have to make your way through the forest to actually hit the base of the dune. There is no transition, it just turns from forest to sand.



Getting up the thing was brutal exercise. Every step up went almost all the way back down. Here, my mom bear crawls while others have to stop and rest.



I just really like this picture for its scale and subject. This little boy is fully leaning into the wind which is whipping sand at him at painfully high speeds. It truly feels like you are getting sand blasted.



My shoes got a bit sandy...

My favorite part of the whole experience was running down the massive wall of sand. I just let gravity pull me down at full speed while my legs struggled to keep up. It's too bad it wasn't video taped since I made it down the whole thing in about 6 seconds. A man watching from the bottom stared at me like a crazy person as I zoomed past him. Of course, after I did it, everyone tried. I almost wish I had fallen. That would be have been EPIC.

After driving down the coast a bit, we stopped at a little beach town (INSERT NAME OF TOWN -- RIGHT AFTER LACANAU). The weather wasn't cooperating but their were a couple of kids body boarding the shore break.



In France, you will see many things, including a man simultaneously wearing a sweater and a speedo.



If you disobey the lifeguards they will lynch you from their helicopter.



This just scares me.

After lunch, we made it to our true destination, Hossegor. This town is considered the best surf spot in all of France and they know it. Everything has to do with surfing. Every other shop in town is a surf shop and they have all the big ones (Quicksilver, Billabong, O'Neill, etc). Everyone is dressed in board shorts, brand sweatshirts (it was cold!), and sandals. One store must have had 200 different pairs of sandals on racks outside. It's so commercialized it's scary.

The main break is right out the main road. It was low tide so no one was out since it's a very fast, hollow break that turns into shore break at the extremely low low tides. Even at good tide, the break is in shallow water and breaks pretty heavy. The ambient and water temps are so cold, it's looking like I won't get a chance to surf. Blast!

Random Thought:
The beaches in France are so much prettier than in Southern California (if you can get past the random trash floating in the ocean). They generally haven't developed right up to the sand and therefore don't screw up the beach with sea walls, failed beach replenishments, and all that nonsense. It just feels more natural.

Bordeaux

I lost most of today to sleep. I'm still kinda out of it. Hopefully I'll start to recuperate soon, otherwise I'm going to lose out on the little daylight we've been getting. The day wasn't too bad, temperate with a slight drizzle.



The architecture here is much more consistent than Paris. The facades of the old buildings all still remain intact. This creates a feeling of antiquity that pervades the whole place. Being Monday though, the only pervading theme in the town was silence. Everything is closed on Mondays in Bordeaux. Great. Luckily for me, this meant we found a good pub a bit outside of town where I could drink a Guinness, truly the best beer in the world. The day was brightened.

Our hotel was on the far edge of town, about 7 km from the city center. This particular hotel was particularly stuffy, full of business types and a hotel staff with overly stylish glasses.

Random Thought:
Another annoying thing about French hotel staff is their propensity for playing dumb. If I say "sigh-buhr cafe" instead of "see-behr cafe" for 'cyber-cafe' they will act totally ignorant, despite a good description in their language. Only when you pronounce the word exactly as they would in French will they deign to answer you with a proper response prefaced by "AHHHHH OUI, see-behr cafe!". Seriously, you knew what I was saying. I know you're not mentally deficient. This leads to a brief period of silence while I struggle to restrain myself from stabbing them with their designer glasses.

Last day in Paris (off to Bordeaux)

Gare du Nord looms. Yes, we spent most of the day here. Blegh...

After running back and forth between Gare de Montparnasse and Gare du Nord trying to figure out the best way to get to Bordeaux (with backpacks on of course), we ended up stuck, waiting for the overnight train. The trip isn't quite long enough to warrant the overnight thing but hey, six hours is six hours...except when it's in a train cabin and the odors of your cabin mates are matched only by their snoring.



Here I am at the café we spent most of the day at. I'm so happy (look at how happy I look!). Even the weather was great (why won't it stop raining?!). On the bright side, I got to watch the incredible Wimbledon final between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal. All four hours of it.

We walked around Gare du Nord for a while looking for something interesting and found a mix of churches and regular French streets. The area immediately surrounding the station was replete with generic cafés and their corresponding hawkers trying to woo the disembarked passengers with promises of delicious beverages and sports on TV (Formula 1 just isn't THAT exciting to me but people here love it apparently).

An Indian dinner was a nice change of pace followed by a quick stop in a pathetic little cyber-cafe/shack to check email before heading off to sit in the station with the other backpackers.



Getting ready for bed.

The aforementioned cabin mates, despite their high decibel/odiferous outputs, were quite nice people. They were from San Diego, of all places, and to their credit, hadn't slept in many hours (they had spent the previous night in a park in Paris). At least I haven't had to sleep in a park yet.

Having arrived in Bordeaux at 6am, I sleep walked my way to the taxi and turned zombie until we got to the hotel at which point I jumped into bed and slept. Game over.

Paris Day 3

I slept just about all day today. I'm not exactly sure why I was so tired but I had no trouble staying in bed until about 4pm (I did get up for breakfast though...can't miss that). Is it possible that I'm still jet lagged? I haven't been getting much rest, to be sure, but I've never been one to sleep this much. Weird.

Once I finally achieved full beauty rest status, it was game time. My taste for French food having deteriorated to sustenance level only, we went to have it taken down even lower at Le Petit Bofinger (excuse me, bow-fawn-ZHAY) in the Bastille area. Almost every French restaurant serves the same thing. It's time to move on to some ethnic food.

The Bastille area, on the other hand, paints a much different picture of Paris. The average group of pedestrians was much younger and much more diverse than most of what I had seen in the more touristy (read: expensive) areas of the city. The restaurants/shops/bars/general hangout areas were also WAY more chill. Kids were skating and filming without getting hassled by the cops. People could sit on the steps of the opera house and loiter without problem either. The whole area was a breath of fresh air.



Off to one side, I eye the crepe stand hungrily. Notice the bulging tummy. I finally got my fill. I'm always hungry here. Of all the things I miss, I miss healthy food the most. So what if I'm a hippy? At least I'm a healthy hippy. I also feel like I'm smoking a pack a day. France hasn't quite gotten around to that whole smoking ban thing.

When the opera got out, the geriatric audience all poured out and further mixed up the crowd. While it made for hilarious juxtaposition, it does make you wonder if interest in that kind of entertainment, even here in "culturally enlightened" Paris, is waning.

Paris Day 2

Today was basically 6 hours of walking around Paris.



This is my ham sandwich face. Can one subsist on ham and cheese alone? Breakfast and lunch here are difficult because the French don't believe in protein. Breakfast is generally just some sort of bread and coffee. Lunch can be anything but it's generally a small meal as well. Eating overseas is not easy. I'm hungry a lot. Oh wait, I'm always hungry...



Les Invalides looking ominous.



Why? Why not? Waiting in line to get to the top of the Arc de triomphe.



Eiffel Tower? Oh look! A Lamborghini!



The obligatory shot.




We had dinner at a jazz club. They set all the outdoor tables looking out. Some psycho lady came and started singing right in front of us at midnight. I have video of it. If it's any good, I'll be sure and upload part of it.

Random Thought:
What is with French people refusing to speak French?! I can't understand your English. If I wanted you to speak English I would have begun the conversation in English. They finally get the point when I speak back to them in Spanish or overhear me speaking in Spanish to my mom, but some persist. I don't think my French is all that bad given my total lack of practice but necessity drives ingenuity and I've pulled out some pretty clutch vocab from who-knows-where (Madame Dorfman to the rescue -- scary). Broken English and pointing seems to be the communication method of choice for the angry, unhelpful ones. The nice old ladies all love speaking gentle, easy to understand French. They even tell you the same thing a different way if you didn't understand it the first time.

Example #1:
Emphatically pointing at the chair in front of me (from my point of view, this bartender could have been pointing at anything) and saying "feet, feet feet!" doesn't mean much to me. I didn't even know she was talking to me at first. After getting my attention and saying "quittez votre pieds sur la chaise", I could follow directions. She didn't want my feet on the chair. Got it. Her earlier dance routine was cryptic and made her look retarded.

Example #2:
I attempted to order a quick snack from a Chinese restaurant down the street from the laundromat (my current location -- gotta love washing clothes in Paris). I made what I thought was a perfectly logical and grammatically correct order in French of a chicken and rice plate. "Un plat de poulet et riz, s'il vous plait." I didn't even have to come up with it since it was on the menu. What I didn't take into account was that neither I, nor the Asian woman behind the counter would be able make top or bottom of the other's accent. The French guy next to me even got frustrated enough to try to explain it to her himself. Clearly, he understood what I wanted. After the painful and laborious ordeal of specifying which kind of chicken (at one point I just said "ne m'importe pas quel type de poulet, lequel c'est bien/it doesn't matter to me, whichever is fine", but she wouldn't have it, I had to choose...and of course I chose the wrong type...out of two types) I had to go through the same ordeal for which kind of rice I wanted. There was even a freakin picture on the menu of what I wanted, which led to a fruitless attempt at pointing and speaking english! SEE FRENCH PEOPLE! THE POINTING IS USELESS!

At least the French guy next to me could commiserate. Lucky for him, he got to have the younger daughter take his order. She was fluent. BLAST!

Paris Day 1

Once again, the Internet access was absolutely not as advertised. The hotel advertises Wi-Fi in the rooms. They don't tell you the exorbitant fee they charge for using it or that it requires special cards to be purchased from the front desk. Of course they ran out of cards before we got there. With a calm disregard that is so typically French, the concierge told us that he didn't expect them any time soon. If ever there was a candidate for boiling he is it.

The day began with a delicious Leon breakfast (chalky porridge, grainy muffin, and chunky protein shake). I hope it was healthy since it felt like eating and drinking wet concrete (not THAT bad though).

We walked for about 30 minutes to the Waterloo train station to grab the Eurostar train that goes straight from London to Paris under the English Channel, the Chunnel (get it? channel tunnel? you already knew that? right...).

My mom arranged for a hotel on arrival but we didn't know exactly where it was except for it's location in the St. Germain area. The rain made for an absurdly long taxi queue so we jumped on the métro. I guessed that the St. Germain des Prés stop would be close given it's name. Needless to say, I was quite a ways off. More than 30 minutes later, my shoulders and back giving way, we made it to the Hotel Le Royal. I think I lost several inches of height due to spinal compression over the course of today.



My mom poses with a little French "Smart" car. These are everywhere. So French...

Random Thought:
French people are much more stylish and better looking than the Irish/English. At least they try a lot harder, which can also end in disaster. Some of the more amusing people I've seen:
- A kid wearing a "death metal" shirt. It didn't feature a particular band. It just said death metal. He had the makeup and the whole bit but I couldn't help but wonder if he knew what he was wearing. I mean, skater kids don't wear shirts that say "skater punk". It brings new meaning to clothes as a label. Poser.
- Some people bring sagging to a new level here. The ground level. I've seen lots pants (the waist band) just about dragging on the ground. A couple guys were holding up their pants while walking around. That is, if they had let go, the pants would have fallen off. Way to win at life!
- The best though was the kid with a dreadlocks mohawk and purple paisley felt coat complete with golden Nike's.

I didn't take pictures of these people since it was mostly in passing that I saw them.

Another thing, people here are soft. Think of them as opposed to the Irish. It's hard to describe exactly, but there are several things you can look at. I don't think many French people try to stay fit (not that the Brits do either but at least they don't pretend at it. The French are definitely into their whole body/fashion thing. I guess if everyone's going to smoke anyway, what's the point?). It's not necessarily about being fit though, they behave in an particularly French way. For example, they have particular facial expressions that they use all the time that seem haughty and unfriendly. It's a contorted or crinkled face (definitely not a relaxed expression) that I'm talking about. Obviously not everybody does this but it bothers me (call me culturally insensitive, but it does). How's this soft? I don't know. It just is. You had to be there.

Random Thought #2:
British people really say "Brilliant!". They say it all the time. It's hilarious to me every single time. This is why I need more British friends. Really what I need is for someone to follow me around using the word brilliant at appropriate and amusing times. Or I could just start using it more...either way.