That evening we went to this club on Leicester Square called the Hippodrome with the intention of seeing Blur play live. Iím not quite sure why my friends thought they were playing there though. Obviously through some miscommunication involving Time Out London and Radio One combined with the fact that Blurís new album had been released in the UK that day clouded everyoneís minds. Needless to say, Blur were not playing that night. So rather than bask in the sexy glow of Damon Albarn & Co, we wandered around Leicester Square and Picadilly Circus, and ate at McDonalds of all places. The McDonaldís in England are weird. You can get mozzarella sticks there. I donít think thatís right at all. We walked around some more and finally stopped at a bar. My roommate and I both had beers. Our two male friends who were with us had wine. You go ahead and make up your own jokes about that. After we had been served and gotten a table, we noticed the sign on the door said the place was 21+. This is funny because none of us are 21, nor did the bar seem to enforce this Ďpolicyí.

One thing that sticks out between Paris and London is that there are zero attractive men in Paris. Seriously. None. The only cute guy I met in Paris was from IOWA, for christís sake. But why should that be surprising when weíre talking about a country that considers Gerard Depardieu a sex symbol. Ick. On the other hand, London is simply teeming with hotties. Everywhere. It was heaven, really. Unfortunately my stay there wasnít long enough so as to allow me to bring one home as a souvenir.

The next morning we made a quick trip to Harrodís, which is quite possibly the poshest department store in the universe. They wonít let you wear shorts or carry a backpack inside, and if you bring a cell phone youíre made to turn it off so as not to annoy the other shoppers. I was unimpressed.

After being unimpressed, I took the Tube back to Waterloo station and caught the Chunnel back to Paris because I had somewhere to be that night.

Before I visit somewhere, itís customary for me to find out if there are any good shows happening while Iím in town. I was beyond delighted to find out that Indigo Swing were opening up for the Brian Setzer Orchestra in Paris while I was there. I was even more thrilled because Iím friendly with Indigo Swingís management and therefore scored myself a free pair of tickets.

Now, I have a closet full of vintage dresses. Molly has one that I had never seen. With that in mind, of COURSE I would bring a dress that was identical to hers. It was just like that episode of 90210 where Brenda and Kelly wore the same dress to the prom. We got many many weird looks from people on the Metro on the way to the show. I suppose it didnít help that the Metro stop we got off at was also the same one you take to go to the red light district.
The concert was fabulous fun, but it was very strange coming from Los Angeles, where just about everyone dances (no matter how bad they are), to Paris, where nobody moved at all. And they liked to clap in unison a lot, which is sort of creepy.

After the show we stopped at a Grec Frite place to eat. Grec Frites are sort of like Gyros. Sort of. Eating one was quite possibly the worst mistake I made during my stay in Paris. The next day I had what has to be one of the WORST cases of food poisoning ever. I started throwing up at 6:30 in the morning and continued to do so every half hour on the half hour until 10:30 AM. I was like an NPR news update. "And now hereís Courtney Knopf with the weather! Blargh!" I was pretty much out of commission for the rest of the day, and drank only Perrier. When I tried to eat some pasta, it came back up 6 hours later. Which pissed me off because it was really some damn good pasta. All totaled, I threw up eleven times that day. I have since made a resolution that I will never ever throw up again, because Iíve had more than my fill.

Thursday Molly had to go to class, so I kicked around the city by myself for most of the day. Iím so incredibly impressed with just how efficient the public transportation is in Paris (London too!). Sure it smells like pee, but with the Metro and the RER trains, you can basically get anywhere you want to inside of a half an hour.
So armed with a really good map that broke the city up by arrondisments and a Metro pass, I wandered about. My plan was to go to Notre Dame again and actually take pictures since the first day we went, my camera was a malfunctioning piece of crap.
I did that and then went up to Monmartre where I actually got myself some culture at the Salvador Dali museum. All of Monmartre is up on a hill, and there are a LOT of stairs. Let me tell you, Paris is not a city that one would refer to as wheelchair accessible. And after climbing those stairs, I really could have used one. I was planning on going to Sacre-Coeur (yet another giant cathedral) to take in the view of the city and get a picture or two, but it was foggy as hell and a walk to the top meant more stairs. I opted out of that.
Back to eating my way through the city, that night we went back to Monmartre to this tiny hole-in-the-wall fondue place that Bob DeNiro likes to frequent when heís in Paris. Yes, I referred to him as Bob. You can do that when you live in L.A. I was still getting over my food poisoning, which was really too bad because in any other instance I could have eaten a giant platter of cheese. But I still got a good fill of it. The wine was served in baby bottles, which was sort of amusing. The dessert - which was your choice of lemon or orange sorbet - came in a hollowed out orange or lemon. I must say that was the best damn sorbet ever. At the end of the meal, one of my friends from home, who happened to be in Paris as well stopped in and we got to talk for all of the 10 minutes it took for us to get to the Metro station.