As if it's any surprise, this week's Deep Thoughts Thursday with The Boozy Weathergirl highlights some of the puzzling parts of my European travels over the past ten days. I could give you more than a Top Ten, but this intro is already more than you want to read from me as it is, so here goes...
1
Paris Big Bus Tour - When you are on the top deck, riding around for an hour or more, it is hot as HELL when the sun is out. It's so hot, that there was definitely a pool of sweat under my ass - to the point where I was afraid to get up. Luckily, a breeze came through for a bit, and I was able to spread my legs enough to dry that shit up. Butt then (see what I did there?), I started to think of all the other butt sweaters who sat there, and I wanted to puke. Could not get me in the (microscopic) Parisian shower fast enough that evening.
2
Zone Tampon - Signs for this all over Paris. Apparently, it means Buffer Zone. Not sure what's supposed to buffer in these areas, but all I could imagine is a bunch of men and women cowering there, seeking refuge from bitchy women on the rag. Also, if you ride the metro in Paris, and someone tricks you into thinking that there is a town somewhere called Sortie, you are going to be confused AF and jumping off the train at every stop, because while there are signs everywhere for "it," the word means "Exit!"
3
My little sister raved and raved about the chocolate mousse at a restaurant called Chez Janou in Paris. We thought of going one night for dinner, but it didn't work out. Another friend also recommended a dinner joint in Paris that we made a whole-hearted attempt to get to, but we also could not walk any further. So we decided to just go to Chez Janou for dessert the following night. Backtrack an hour or so. My phone was dying, and I was the only one paying for WiFi, so I sent my husband the addresses of both the recommended restaurant and Chez Janou. We ate dinner at none of the above, hailed a cab to get to the mousse mecca, my husband showed the cabbie the address and off we went. We get out of the cab and I chuckle - we had pulled up to the restaurant my friend had recommended, not Chez Janou. My husband is pissed at himself, my daughter and I try to get him to shake it off and find another cab. He doesn't trust himself to give the right address, so I pull up the Web site and show the next cabbie. First, he drives us to the wrong place, then drops us off at the address I showed him - a restaurant that is closed called Le China. WTF? Of course, the Chez Janou web site features a few other (defunct) restaurants affiliated with the mothership, and now I am the one who showed the cabbie the wrong address. My family begging for the mission to abort, I figure third time is a charm and get us ANOTHER cab, this time my daughter providing the correct address. We pull up to Chez Janou, frazzled but excited. I smile and proudly say, "we're here for the mousse!" to which I am met with a look of surprise and disgust, at the French maître d' explains that you cannot just come in for the mousse - they barely have enough for the dining customers - and since we did not have a reservation, there would be no mousse for me! I think my jaw might still be on the sidewalk outside that place. Dumbfounded, my husband now irate and me hysterically laughing to keep from crying, my daughter directs us to a Parisian McDonalds where we grab a soft serve and call it a night.
4
The story above would be done if my phone hadn't died, and my now 50-year-old brain didn't forget the name of our hotel. You might say, "but, Gina, surely your husband or daughter knew the name?" Nope! They just follow me blindly when it comes to this stuff. Perfect, right? So, I did remember the metro stop near the hotel/apartment - Gare de l'est. Phew! Now Paris metro is not like NYC - you can't but tickets just anywhere, and the Gare did not allow us to purchase an all-day pass earlier. So, we had to go to three different metro stations just to find one where we could buy tickets. Except this one was on an unfamiliar line, and we wanted reassurance that we were going to right way. So, of course, we ask the guy behind the counter. Also, of course, he does not speak ONE WORD of English. And we speak maybe five words in French. Awesome. He gets so frustrated, he starts talking into a translator app, and we find the right line to bring us home. Meanwhile, this was NOT the day to wear the cute new shoes, and I paid the price for that for two days afterward.
5
Now, we leave Paris and move on to Ireland. Cute little bar in our hotel in Killarney. We have some drinks and do some research, see that the bus tour we're taking the next day is only a four-minute drive away, and we sleep soundly that night. We take our time at breakfast but leave in plenty of time to make a quick drive into town. What no one told us is that there is a HUGE bike race in town the next day and several parking lots are being roped off for the festivities. Couple that with missing the meeting point on the first drive through, while also getting stuck in pre-race traffic, and we are now within a five-minute window to park the car and get on the bus. And this bus driver is pissed. Like running down this cobblestone road with my kid to find my husband, so that we can make this 10:30am deadline pissed. They can't find him. They come back. He makes me call my husband to tell him we're leaving. No refunds. Can't reschedule. Put the bus driver on the phone to try and buy time, and just as my husband was about to throw in the towel, a car pulls out, he pulls in and runs his outta-shape ass up that cobblestone road, getting the tour started four minutes late. For which the entire bus had to listen to a berating about being on time getting back on the bus after each stop. Of course, my husband also did not have time to pay for the parking spot, and we were plagued all day wondering if the rental was towed. But alas, it was not. Phew.
6
The story above could have been more fun if the people on this very large tour bus were supportive or actually spoke, laughed or made any noise at all. You could literally hear a pin drop on this thing - all day long! Luckily, the three of us were in the very back row, so no one could really see what we were doing. And this was a good thing, because as soon as the equally mute (and slightly pissy) tourguide started playing music from Riverdance, Shawn and I broke out in our own version of Lord of the Dance, which sent me into a fit on silent laughter that made me cry. I was hyperventilating silently, my mortified daughter looking at me like I have ten heads, but not being able to make any noise for fear of drawing attention to us, the literal black sheep of the tour. And since we're still talking about the tour bus, these roads are TIGHT. Like, you're wondering how two Mini Coopers might comfortably fit down the same street, let alone a tour bus and a car - or even TWO tour buses. I just kept looking out the window, muttering, "there's no way we're gonna make it!" And then watching the look of horror on the face of these microscopic car drivers as they close their eyes and pray that the bus doesn't skin the side of their vehicle.
7
So that night, we go to the most famous pub in the town, and Shawn sees a sign he wants to photograph on the wall of a neighboring table. Two very nice American couples are sitting there, they exchange pleasantries, and we move on. Skip ahead to the next night in Galway, where we've met up with friends and are set to enjoy some Irish stew at that town's infamous pub. We look over at the table next to us, and who is there? The two couples from Killarney! No way! They're great, definitely our kinda people, but we're all wrapped up in our own adventures, so we talk a bit, then move on again. We run into them again later that night, have a great conversation and wish them well. We split from our friends for travels the next day and head to a small town between Galway and Dublin called Althone - home of Ireland's oldest pub, Sean's Bar. The front of the place was packed, so the bartender directs us to the back of the building where there is additional seating. We walk through the entryway back there and hear, "NO. WAY!," followed by laughter. We had run into these two couples AGAIN. Some may call this stalking, yet we can't figure out who would be stalking who, but we prefer to call it happy accidents. We're now all friends on social media, and I'd like to think this might not be the last we see of each other.
8
On the flip side, when you see a drunk man at one of those same bars motion to you to ask if the seat in front of you is taken, do not assume, as I did, that he means to take that chair somewhere else. In fact, you should instead realize that he is drunk, talkative and looking for an older-woman chat. After 30 minutes, he still doesn't get the hint that he's overstayed his welcome, even after your husbands and kids come over to join. And he's so flustered that your husband has an Irish name, yet knows nothing about his Irish heritage, that he calls your mother-in-law back in the states to discuss this with her while she's primping for a big night out. Not knowing how we would escape this debacle, we used the said couples above as the scapegoats we were going to (fake) meet and prayed that the drunk leprechaun would not follow.
9
Next two things are more general observances - European toilets. If you are going to make me pay to pee, you better damn well give me some real toilet paper to wipe with, not some circular tissue dispenser that moonlights as a real TP holder. I don't care where I am, I don't want my business on my hands. So, if I can't wad up the roll, you better believe I am going to pick enough of those miniscule tissues out to considerably pad my paws. Also, can you try and make the stalls just a wee bit bigger? I have bruises on my body from bumping into said dispensers, metal pull poles and even the walls or toilets as I tried to simply turn my body to wipe.
10
Last thing for now - lukewarm drinks. I don't know why it's American to want a cold beverage, but I did get tired of feeling guilty asking for ice. Why is it such a crime to want your drinks to be refreshing instead of tasting like you poured them hours ago? And, for the love of GOD, what do Europeans call seltzer? When I tired of Guiness, I just wanted a vodka seltzer. I tried asking for soda, sparkling water, Perrier, anything not sweet to add to my vodka, but no one ever got it right. And when I asked for just some something to de-sweeten the taste, they brought me another of the same cocktail instead. So now, I'm paying $30 for a shitty drink. Clearly, I need to do better research before I return to Europe. But who knew the basic drink of the middle-aged American woman would be so hard to recreate abroad?
We're back on US soil, and I stayed awake long enough to crank this out for your enjoyment. Now that the stigma of COVID seems to be over, I challenge you to dust off those bucket lists and find a way to make your dreams become a reality. While you're at it, use the following drink list and possibly choose a destination where your favorites flow!
Europe - Boozy Style
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