Friends are important because who else is going to smack your ass?

The violence in me is still strong.  There is very little that's going right in Paris.  We are idiot magnets of late; everyone involved in our move has the competence level of a zygote.

The good news is it's making it emotionally easier for us to leave.  "Get us the hell out of here" has been uttered more than once.  The bad news is we're leaving this experience, these life-changing three years, on a very sour note.

Ahh.. but that's life in Paris, people.  It's a magical place until you need to get something done.  The more important that something is, the less likely it's going to go smoothly.  All you can do is bang your head against a beautiful Hausmann-era building and drink a shit ton of wine.

Let's ignore the insanity for a moment.  Let's focus on the fact I was just visited by some of the best people in the world.  And let's do it quickly before I'm internet-less again.

 

My Two Seattle Ladies...

.. and Chicago O

The Friends' visits served two purposes for me.  Most importantly, it reminded me that life is really good in Seattle.  I will not want for laughter nor mayhem when I'm back home.  Secondly, the visits helped me say goodbye to Paris.  I made the rounds of the tourist sites, the places that made my heart leap on even my darkest days, one last time.  It was sad but I was too busy being inappropriate or getting my ass smacked by a friend to really notice.

 It's not sad to say goodbye to Montmartre when you're busy grabbing a statue's boobs.

I'm glad I made the rounds before everything went to hell.  In my current state of mind, I would just yell and make obscene gestures at everything -- "Screw you, Notre Dame!  A big EFF YOU to you, too, Sacre Coeur!"  I would be a crappy tour guide for wide-eyed, frightened friends.

The Seattle Ladies were supposed to go to bed early their first day for jetlag reasons but that plan didn't work out so well -- we accidentally got drunk as skunks at our place and stayed up 'til the wee hours of the morning.

Unfortunately for Al and Thor (Al's personal trainer), they had a training appointment in the apartment that night.  They got heckled mercilessly.  We demanded to see their pecks a few hundred times but it was all slurred like "cominshowuzzzyerpex."  Seattle Ladies are sexy like that, you see.

Thor and Al were frightened so they went into the other room and closed the door.  I think they were hiding, or at least trying to keep a low profile lest we realized they were still in the vicinity.  When they had no choice but to open the door to fit the chin-up bar in the doorframe, they both looked like they would rather die than face the three of us, who had only consumed more wine while they were hiding and were thus even more dangerous.

As Al performed his chin-ups, we hooted like horny old ladies at Chippendales and "helped" Thor keep the count -- in several languages, no less, some we even made up!  We messed up the count and confused everybody and made Al do more chin-ups than he wanted to do.  He did billions!

The photos we took that night will never see the light of day because they are serious blackmail material.  Oh.  My.  God. 

Then, as tends to happen when too much drink is involved, we broke down sobbing and did a few rounds of "I love you, woman."  Thor left quietly in the middle of the crying and hugging.

In related and not surprising news, I will never, ever face Thor again.  Alex swears Thor thought it was funny and was "happy to see MJ having so much fun with her friends" but I don't believe it.  We were absolutely terrifying, he was lucky to escape with his life, and we all know it.

Don't they look innocent from the back?

That first night resurfaced every time we scrolled through someone's camera.  Blonde Seattle Mom would say "OK, let's see ... here's Notre Dame... here's the Luxembourg at sunset... here's Saint Sulpice... here's some ass-smacking... here's some boob-grabbing.... here's something that's illegal in several states... and here's Diderot."

Sure, it was Diderot with a traffic cone on his head but he's still not nearly as fun as the pictures he lives next to in Blonde Seattle Mom's camera. 

Moving on.  Guess what this is --

Give up?  This is only a tiny portion of the tourists you'll find in front of the Eiffel Tower taking "unique" pictures pretending to hold it up, hug it, hump it, whatever.  Don't overlook the guy planking on the other side of the street.  He wins.

I spilled some wine on my shirt at our favorite neighborhood restaurant one night.  As the waitress blotted it, the maître d’ grabbed me by the arm, winked and said, "It eez OK. She come in zee back wiz me and we tek it off!" 

If a maître d’ said something like that in the States, it would be creepy.  He'd lose his job, be hit with a lawsuit and be shot in the face all within five seconds.  But in Paris -- charming, funny, and delightful!  Can someone explain that to me?  I'm at a loss.

 

Seattle Mom on her Velib.  A natural.

My blogger friend extraordinaire, Karin, acted as nanny to my two kids so I could have maximum time with my visitors.  Karin wins many awards.  She came armed with dinosaur print-outs, projects, and a steely courage.  Hugs, Alien Parisienne, you are most excellent.

I was exhausted and not at the top of my beauty when the Seattle Ladies left.  Chicago O arrived immediately after.  I was worried he was going to have to drag me around by one arm in my exhausted state but nope -- the minute I saw him, I revved right back up.  I haven't seen him in many years but it felt like zero seconds had passed since we last made fun of each other.

Chicago O and I spent a college semester abroad in Luxembourg.  We've done Europe together before, but this time was different because we had more money to spend on the dinner bill and did not once have to sleep on the floor of a train station.

At this lunch we got caught in a huge storm.  It hailed on us.  The restaurant people could have extended the awning further but they wanted us to leave so they didn't --

Even for leisurely French lunches, Chicago O and I set a new record.  When not even hail on our heads convinced us to leave, the manager came out and incredulously told us to GO.   I think he was secretly impressed by our tenacity.

Chicago O and I sat in Montmartre cafes and smoked cigarettes, something neither of us had done in a decade.  Those things are disgusting but it felt good and appropriate to join the club of Parisian smokers at a sidewalk cafe just once.  We also took the kids to the Rodin Museum where I watched with a warm, happy heart as my dear friend slammed my son repeatedly to the pavement --

O also took some pictures of us next to Camille Claudel's work at the Rodin Museum because it's the last time I'll see it (for awhile anyway) and she's important to me.  I would love to post the Camille Claudel pictures but Chicago O hasn't sent them to me yet because he's a real slacker.

All right, I've enjoyed reliving a bit of the grand finale of visitors but I've got to get back to my frustrating life.  There are things to organize, plans to be made, people to strangle.  I'm very busy.

I will write when I can, as my internet access will remain intermittent at best.  Newcastle Guy is currently saving our asses by giving us his something-something code that works from our apartment.  I don't know how it works -- let's just say Newcastle Guy is magic, a good friend, and we thank him profusely.

When that stops working, I will beg people in the neighborhood to let me leech off their wireless.  My first target will be the maître d’ at the neighborhood restaurant who wants me to take off my shirt because I think I can really get somewhere with that.

Ladies, the visit was RADICCHIO.  Chicago O, let's never smoke again, cool?

Don't count me out just yet, posse!  I'm still fighting!  I'm still strong!
MJ