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We're finally leaving Europe. Part of me is sad to go since it means going back to my otherwise normal existence, while the rest of me is just really excited to get out of the damn cold and back home where I'll be able to wear flip flops any given day because there isn't a shitload of snow falling every damn day.
Our bags are checked, we managed to score an entire row on the plane courtesy of the nice man at check-in and we've got about 3 more hours left on the flight when I decide I need to use the lavatory. I put the Bourne Identity on pause, walk the few rows down to the toilet, lock my door, pop a squat and let nature go.
...and then suddenly I realize something is very very horribly wrong. Why??
Because the lid to the toilet is still down.
Which means my pee isn't going where it needs to go.
Instead, it's going on my tights, my underwear, and yes, the floor.
The next three minutes essentially consisted of me standing in a puddle of my own urine with my skivvies to my knees whispering, "whatthefuckwhatthefuckohmygodwhatdoidowhatdoido?!?!"
When I finally calmed down long enough to realize that no, this wasn't just a bad dream, that I really did just urinate all over the damn place and myself, I knew what I had to do: get rid of the pee. Once the floor was as clean as standard-issue paper towels could make them, I turned my attention to the most pressing (and uncomfortably soaked) issue: my dirty laundry. There was, however, a few tiny issues with this problem, namely that my tights were tucked into my socks...and my socks were tucked in my knee-high boots.
So yeah, I'll say it: I got butt-nekkid in an airplane lavatory... to dispose of my pee-soaked tights and undies.
Of course, this was a problem because those pee-soaked tights? There were the only things I had on and there was no way in five levels of hell or obesity that I was going to walk down back to my seat butt-nekkid either. Mercifully, that morning was freezing and I had pulled on TWO sets of tights before leaving our hotel. So while the red tights I had on were done for, the inner, black ones were thankfully spared from getting drenched in (my) piss. I then pulled a Cirque du Soleil-worthy performance in about ten square feet of lavatory space over the Atlantic ocean to pull off the offending clothing and stuff my ruined underwear in the trash. Unfortunately, I'm a little in love with my red tights and thus, figured they could be saved. After washing them in the sink however, I had another issue: it'd be painfully obvious for me to walk back to my seat with my drenched tights in hand since I clearly didn't plan on soiling the bathroom floor and didn't bother bringing a purse with me.
After stuffing the tights underneath the plane's sink, I walked back to my seat, uncomfortably and embarrassingly in commando, found one(!!!!!!) spare ziplog bag and an extra set of underwear and doubled-back to the lavatory. There, retrieved the evidence of my bathroom-crime and did yet another circus act so I wasn't pulling a Britney Spears in the plane. Once I got back to my seat, I turned to my friend, told her what had happened and she laughed her ass off till we finally landed.
What a way to end a trip.
While it's tattered and in literal pieces (many of which I can't find or have been lost on the Paris streets) this map managed to guide two non-French speaking, directionally-challenged Americans in the snow/rain through strange roads and unpronounceable streets.
I'd like to tell you exactly when the damage was done...but this happened on our second day in Paris when we explored everything under the falling snow...and when I dropped this map into far too many puddles of slush.
Thank you Mappy. You served us well. Godspeed.
Despite the fact that it's freezing outside, we walk almost everywhere. We take pictures of everything from the beautiful and historical to the mundane and strange (think: topless running man in London) and, on some occasions when we happen to pass by a field of untouched snow, I do what every mature 24 year old does and go running/frolicking into it. Why? Because it's fun, especially when that snow feels like fresh powder instead of slush or thin ice that you could slide on and die from.
We've been doing this since we got to Europe so it's easy for me to tell that something is wrong on this particular day as we walk around. For one, my toes feel wet and cold. I shrug this off since I figure I dunno, I have feet sweat or something. But then, I get the feeling that something is wedged to my heel. When I pull up my boot to look at it, I see that there's nothing on my heel...just a crack on the sole right across where snow and slush has been seeping in. Of course, I check the other side and lo and behold: I've got twin cracked boots.
Boo. Sadface.
I had to leave the poor things in Paris...along with some of the cheese that I couldn't bring myself to put in my bag for fear of everlasting stench.
I've had this ring for less than a year, finding it in a marketplace in Seattle when we drove down from Canada, and buying it on the spot because I've always loved Claddagh rings and because it's rare for me to find a ring that fits my tiny, child-like fingers.
I was under the impression that it was made of silver, because it doesn't bend when I drop/smush/play with it and my finger hasn't turned green with the silver plating rubbing off of it. So you can imagine my immense surprise when I pull it off in a moment of boredom and suddenly realize: the damn thing is bent. Like, literally bent.
Considering that I've barely taken this ring off because we've been so damn busy every day and because it's fucking freezing that I'd be an idiot to pull off my gloves for an extended period of time (unless, of course, I'm taking photos), I'm baffled. Nope, not confused, baffled. Because I honestly can't imagine how/why/when this all happened.
So I'm a little sad now.
...Until I realize it's a great excuse to find another ring in Paris :D
Edit: I'm hooooome!!
Did you know that when the weather gets cold enough, snow will actually accumulate on airplanes and just.not.let.go?? When this happens, a team of people are brought in to actually de-ice those planes.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why our flight left over an hour later than scheduled. And while it totally damaged our plans to get into the country, I gotta say we got really lucky. If you've got an eye on the news, aside from everything going in Algeria, the European news keeps covering the hundreds of flights that have been canceled/delayed for days especially in London Heathrow. Considering that we managed to get out of the country when the airport shut down 260+ flights (including two which were flying into Paris), we got really freaking lucky.
(By the way, we have managed to make it to Paris and are happily in our room, having eaten a fabulous breakfast and ready to take on this freezing wonderland. See you soon!)
We know ahead of time that it's going to snow. She's excited about it, while all I hear is "cold, ice, and frostbite." We plan to do all our outside activities in the morning since it's supposed to snow in the afternoon. So, of course, the first thing we see the moment we walk outside our hotel is, what? Yeah, that's right: SNOW.
And I don't know what it is, but in that instant when thousand flurries fall all around me, I forget how much I hate the snow. Because snow is awful and freezing and I'm somewhat aware that my face is being frozen and it's getting on my hair, ruining the effort I had put into ironing it, but oh my GOD it's so pretty that I just honestly can NOT care. We spend the whole day walking through snow and I even manage to dance in a good set of it while we attempt to build the saddest, smallest, most lopsided snowman everrr outside a museum.
It's a freezing ass day, but I can't complain because the closest I've come to snow was the slush that we found on the streets of Atlanta when I was a child. It snows for most of the day and as we're riding the Underground to get back home, she points to my points and goes, "What's that??"
Considering that these boots just came in, I should be utterly scandalized. Instead, i shrug it off. I'm still not sure what this stain is, but I can't really care. If these temporary streaks are the price I have to pay to enjoy a day of snow, it's well worth it.
The last time we went to Europe, the fuses on our converters blew out on the tail end of our vacation. We were largely okay with this but my sister, who largely refused to ever step 10 feet out of our house without her hair done and make up on, made the executive decision to either not come out sightseeing with us...or otherwise manage to not be photographed. Like a ghost.
So when I announced that I was going to Europe and taking my new Chi (courtesy of the same little sister), she warned me against it, bringing back up her summer of nappiness. And me, being wonderfully, idiotically vain, ignored her warnings. I figured, hey, that summer of naps happened because we had the wrong converters or we left the irons on too long that they short-circuited. I essentially made excuses because there was no way in hell, heaven or earth that I was going to be walking around Europe looking a hot damn mess just because there was a small (extreme) likelihood of my iron, you know, potentially lighting on fire.
And so, when I rolled out of bed an hour ago and plugged in my converter and my iron, I took every precaution: used a converter, used an adaptor, and ran my hair through it quickly before it had a chance to get too hot before unplugging the entire set and doing it all over again. I figured I was doing okay.
...and then I heard the dreaded pop of doom and turned in the split second that it took to see an actual spark come off my converter.
Yup, my only converter is dead. On the bright side, my iron is just fine...and my hair looks fab. So yay?
