You can take the girl out of Scranton, but you can't take Scranton out of the girl. Paris, Part Une.

I just got back from Europe. Not literally, but close enough (last night). I have to say, outside of the history thing (Europe is OLD!!), it's a whole different world over there.

The first stop was Paris. We get to the hotel and holy cow, our room was the size of some bathrooms in houses. It was small. You could walk around, but only if you didn't have to put your luggage anywhere. So I squeeze over to the bathroom, and there's a shower, but no curtain. ??? Apparently most Europeans take baths, and as we all know, anytime you're in the bathroom, "yourapeein'. " For the 4 nights we stayed in Paris, I inadvertantly sprayed down the whole bathroom every time I took a shower.

Obviously, I didn't spend the whole time in the shitter. I did wander out every so often, and on one occassion I went to the Louvre. I get up to the ticket counter and say, 'Deux billets, s'il vous plais' (Two tickets, please). Mr. Ticket rattles off something in response and I say, "Uh, Je ne parle pas francais tres bien." (I don't speak French very well). Then he says something else...in GERMAN. We go a few rounds and eventually I get my tickets (he just wanted to know if I was a student or not). But apparently, the fact that he kicked into German now makes me realize I speak French with a German accent. Sprechen Sie...aw hell. Just give me my tickets.

Stop # 2: Eiffel Tower. I went up to a guard and asked if he spoke English. He asks in return, "You speak Spanish?" Uh, no dude. We're not bartering languages here. It's English or nothing. Nothing won, and it turned into a miming gig, which is damn near impossible. YOU try miming, "Can you buy tickets in advance?" It's hard, but a few high kicks and a double axle later, I found out you can't - tickets must be used immediately.

In true French fashion, I ate a lot of French onion soup. My last bowl was by far the best...it was even served by a waiter who looked exactly like Richard Gere circa mid-1980's. Then I found a rat turd. In my awesome soup. Gross. There I was, munching away, enjoying all the frenchy goodness, when I spooned a little black...thing. I pulled it out and asked for a second opinion. "What does that look like to you?" I asked J. He inspected it and said, "Uh...a rat turd." Yup. That's what I was thinking too. I pulled it apart, mashed it up, and tapping into my own personal experience as a former hamster owner, I was able to confirm that it was definitely a rodent turd of sorts.

I was good about it, though. I didn't puke; I didn't even gag. I was pretty goddamn stoic, really. And remember that part in "Pretty Woman" when Richard Gere feeds Julia Roberts the rat shit? Yeah, neither do I. We didn't leave a tip.

So there's Paris in a nutshell-of-a-blog. It was incredible. I was speechless for a lot of it. And on our last night, we walked along the Sienne River and watched the Eiffel Tower's light show. It was beautiful. Then we saw two rats ripping into a bag of trash. We called it a night.

Thanks for the memories, Paris. And in the words of Mark Twain: In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language."

Dude, just because I don't like you doesn't mean I have "daddy issues."

Seems like everyone has a game plan. I don't have a game plan. I barely have game. So when people say, "Oh, you're going to Paris! To London! Where are you staying, what are you doing, what tours have you signed up for?" and I respond with, "Uh, I don't know. It's La Blah a la Hotel de Sumthin'. And then some other place," that's when the "looks" start. No plan? No tours? I'm a savage. I just want to make it over there and back. Preferably in one piece.

I do have some concerns that my plane may go down over the Atlantic. Or that the train tunnel from Paris to London (the Chunnel, as it's called) will rupture and I will drown to death. And what will I see when my life flashes before my eyes?

When I was 4, I pooped on a neighborhood kid's bike seat. I had wanted to ride his bike all summer and he never let me. Then one day, I was getting ready to go into the house (because I had to poop) and he offered to let me ride his bike. I said, "As soon as I come back out..." and he said, "Nope. If you don't ride it now, you can't ride it." There I was - the rock and the hard place. So, I bit the bullet: I rode his bike...and shit on his bike seat. He freaked out, and I was never allowed to ride it again. I had chosen...wisely. However you look at it, I wouldn't have been given another chance to ride it again. A few years ago, my mom ran into him. He's now married and has a family of his own. He asked if she remembered when I pooped on his bike seat ~ she said, "We ALL remember when she pooped on your bike seat."

Then I was 12 and my mother had me in a department store, trying to buy me my first training bra. I was humiliated and tried to talk her out of it. I didn't have boobs. Why did I need a bra? I could wear my undershirt. Or, I didn't have to wear anything. She didn't buy any of it, and sent me off into the dressing room with an armful of AA cups, varying from 32-36. I tried each, one more uncomfortable than the next. I finished up, threw my shirt back on and stormed out, back onto the sales floor.

"How'd they fit?" My mom yelled out when she me. "What bra fit you best?" I wanted to die. It was like she yelled it into a bullhorn. In reality, I don't think anyone was in that section, but to me, 12 years old and boobs were still a big deal, the world was tuned in. I stormed over to her and hissed, "Do you have to say it that way? Can't you say something else, like 'What time is it?!' " She looked at me and laughed in my face. That's when she pointed out that not only had I put my shirt on backwards, but it was also inside out. Figures.

Flash ahead to when I was 16. My chore after dinner was to take the garbage out. Easy enough. The problem was, in the winter I had to walk down the back porch stairs to get to the garbage cans. Let me tell you, we had a leak in the rain gutter, and that dripping made for some icy stairs. One night, after my first step I hit an ice patch with my heel, and it was instant luge. I flew down the rest of the steps like a flash, hit the sidewalk at the bottom (full body contact), and the garbage bag rolled after me. After the initial shock wore off, I tried standing but couldn't - the sidewalk was a sheet of ice. I scooted over to the grass and eventually made my way back into the house, via the yard (I believe I just left the garbage where it stopped). Banged up, defeated, I marched into the house and was like, "Didn't anyone hear me fall down the back steps?!?" My mom was at her desk, which also happened to be underneath a window overlooking the back stairs. She said, "Oh, yeah. I thought you were joking. Why?" Why? I could have died! Geez!

Then I was 19. Went to a college party, ripped off an almost-empty bag of pot from some kids smoking it, and bragged about it to my mom the next morning when I got home. She yelled at me, but mainly because if I had gotten pulled over that night, I would've gotten busted for having contraband. I got lucky.

When I was 26 my mom and I had a surprise 'heart to heart.' She thought I was a lesbian. I hadn't been dating much, hadn't mentioned any desire, and she figured I finally came to realize what team I played for. She gave the whole, "I'll love you no matter what," speech, and I had to give her my "It's been a slow summer!" speech in return. But at least I now know that if I ever become a lesbian, my mom will still love me. Thanks, Mom. My girlfriend thanks you, too.

And now I'm 31. Hittin' Europe for the first time. Oo la la. Or even, Good day, chap! I'll have to write more when I get back. I'm planning on getting a picture of myself hugging or kissing or humping the Eiffel Tower. It will be awesome. I just hope I don't catch lock jaw or anything. At the very least, I'm sure I'll just shit my pants.