Rachel Goes To London: RRRRRROME. And by that I mean Paris.

Parisians have an amazing way of sounding like sexier Israelis; they pronounce the letter 'r' from deep in their throat, as if they're deciding whether to swallow it or throw it up. They gurgle their r's like water, letting it wash down and rinse out the rest of their more boring (see: American) consonants. I love Paris.

Ok let me back up.

Before I fell in love with the way the French pronounce Italian cities, I fell in love with Ben all over again because he's the best at traveling. For those of you who have taken an overnight bus from London to Paris (don't ask, we're poor), you know how crucial securing the perfect seat is. After spontaneously starting the line thirty minutes before departure, Ben shoved our luggage in the luggage compartment and set the pick so that Libby and I could storm the bus and get the best seats. In our case, the best seats happened to be the first row on the top level of a double-decker. The uptown penthouse of horrible European bus lines.

We secured our seats, but--for those of you doing the math--a row of seats has four, and our traveling party had three. I sat next to Ben, and Libby needed to somehow seem revolting enough so as to counteract the primacy of the location of the empty seat next to her, thereby encouraging lonely travelers to look elsewhere for a space. Enter Ben, traveling God. He spent the entire 25 minutes of loading time standing up and rustling through his backpack, physically blocking our row from any intruding Europeans.

Libby and I were pretty useless and giggly while Ben was saving her eight hours of discomfort.

I took some Dramamine to keep the uptown penthouse vomit-free, so after 8 hours of driving (and a very groggy 3:00 am French customs detour) I woke up in Paris with an achy back and crumbs in my scarf.

Before I digress on a rant about how beautiful Paris is, I want to digress on a rant about how wonderful Ashley and Matt, Libby's friends from Michigan and our travel buddies, are. They speak French. Matt knows everything about Paris AND has a great sense of direction. Ashley is a photographer. Oh and they're both kind of cool, I guess. Needless to say, we struck gold.

They're stylish and great.

In terms of the hostel, we probably only struck plastic. There were five of us in a six person room, so we had some friendly foreign company. The blankets were covered in questionable hairs--presumably not from a person's head?--and the mattresses smelled like very potent body odor. But we were in Paris so so I'll spin it as Bohemian and glamorous. Besides, we were staying in Monmartre, the historic district of artists and whores.

With Matt as our guide and patisseries as our rest stops, we spent the whole weekend just walking around Paris. Walking. Eating. Taking pictures. Marveling at everything from the Louvre to the Arc de Triumph to the fact that French women eat lots of baguettes but still look good in skinny jeans. (I'm most awestruck by the first and last.)

Although I'm still glad I'm living in London (London somehow seems more lived in than Paris, more charming and worn in), I loved, loved, loved the city of romance, carbohydrates, beauty, and Madeline.