From the pictures, you’d think that my trip to Paris was magical and all kinds of amazing, but you’d be wrong, because, while Paris is all of those things for other people, it has a special vendetta against me. Paris is my own personal disaster, every time, the one that seems like a great idea but leaves me vowing “never again” on the way home.

I cannot bring myself to explain exactly what went wrong this time, but let’s just say that it involved Jesus freaks, a purposefully missed flight, plans for a trip to the emergency room, said plans thwarted very publicly after I became the hero on the Sunday morning Eurorail en route to said emergency room, a drunk girl who decided that my face looked like a tasty snack in a nightclub, my companions all taking a pee in the hedge maze of the Tuileries and then claiming that it was totally my idea when we all know that I would never suggest any activity involving publicly removing one’s pants, many people telling me why my life would be better if I succumbed to Jesus’ love (which is a separate thing from the Jesus freaks, unfortunately), and the restaurant that gave me an empty take away bag when I had paid 11 euro for quiche, coupled with the realization that I had paid for a dinner I would not be eating unless I went all the way back to the restaurant, which I did, and yeah, the quiche was ice cold.

Oh, Paris, city of everyone else’s delight. Why do you look beautful in my photographs and taunt me so:

In any case, I am safe now, and far away from all the havoc that is the innocent-at-first-glance city of Paris.

More tomorrow. I will try to depress less.