I’m pretty damn happy with my life, and I try really hard to make decisions that cause me little regret. But I think if you asked sixteen year old me what she thinks of now me, she’d be disappointed that I haven’t traveled more. So when this once in a lifetime opportunity to plan a trip anywhere in the world fell in my lap a few months ago, I was overwhelmed with possibilities. After much discussion with H, we settled on France and the planning began. We did two nights in Lyon, two nights in Beaune (the heart of Burgundy wine country), and six nights in Paris. I posted some pictures to Instagram and a ton on Facebook- feel free to check there for the visual feast.

I’d never been to Europe before, so I did my due diligence before the trip and read all the “how not to be an annoying American tourist” and “what to expect in France” articles. Lots of things they mentioned you’d notice once you got there were spot on. For example, what the ever loving fuck is wrong with our bathroom stalls? Why do the doors and walls not go down to the floor? You don’t realize how weird it is until you go somewhere there’s actually privacy in a public bathroom. Also, pay toilets are a thing I wish we had here. Seriously.

Also, stores and restaurants are actually closed a couple days of the week, usually Sunday and/or Monday. Like, not open. Like, potentially missing out on revenue and not milking every last capitalist drop of possible earnings. It’s almost as if these people have lives or something. And the customers who might normally shop or dine in those establishments? They just figure it out instead of leaving shitty Yelp reviews.

People eat dinner late. And make reservations. And wear scarves. And they have 894 different ways to wear said scarves, one of which was taught to me by the haughty saleslady in the boutique where H got me my very own Parisian scarf so I could blend in. Or try to anyway. I asked her in my terrible French if she could show me how to tie it like hers. She said yes, but the look on her face said “doubtful.” LOL. Those damn Frenchwomen are frighteningly stylish. It strikes you: they’re allowed to age gracefully and remain sexy/stylish. I want to be perfectly coiffed 60 year old walking my dog in Paris someday. I better get on that.

Speaking of dogs, you just stepped in some poo. You can’t avoid it. You will do it because there’s dog doody on the street and you’ll be so distracted looking up at the incredible architecture and saying “I want to live there!” every five seconds. And so much art and history everywhere you look, it’s overwhelming.

I hope you’re not allergic to Cigarette smoke. If France has a Surgeon General, they’re not warning citizens not to smoke. Or they’re being ignored. I smoked off and on for 20 years. Mostly socially or to pass the time at work, and often I’d go days without a cigarette. Haven’t had so much as a puff in over two years, and have barely missed it. Maybe once or twice out on the town, friends have excused themselves for a smoke break and I’ve felt that nostalgic twinge. But no real cravings until France. Something about sitting at a sidewalk table on bustling Paris evening, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. I wanted a cigarette so badly. I just ended up drinking more wine.

Oh. My. God. The wine. And the cheese. And the butter. And basically all the food and everything I drank and holy crap WHY DOES EVERYTHING TASTE BETTER? I also ate in my first Michelin starred restaurant, which was a bucket list experience for sure. Not sure I could stomach spending rent on one meal ever again, but talk to me when I win the lottery. Here’s me spending more money than I should have on Belon oysters and rose wine…

There’s more I’m sure, but jet lag y’all. Plus the time change. And it’s clear you missed me, because the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I got home. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I’m just already scheming how I can get back to France…

T