It was about this time last year that I went to Europe, so it's on my mind... This was the bed I had (upper photo) in a hostel in Paris, near Sacre Coeur.  The flight was supposed to leave in the evening, and after everyone was aboard, we were stuck on the tarmac for about three hours, while some mechanical problem was being addressed.  Eventually we all had to de-plane and get hotel vouchers, and go to a nearby hotel.  It was Newark, so I took the voucher instead of taking the two hour (at 2am) local train home.  Since I had to be back at the airport early to try to get a flight, I only had a couple hours sleep.  The flight I got on left in the evening, and then I couldn't sleep on the plane... so I arrived in Paris alone, no knowing a soul in France, and a jetlagged nightmare.  I speak equally small bits of French, Japanese, and Spanish, and have been learning sign language over the past year, starting a few months before this trip.  The problem is, that for whatever reason my brain doesn't access these languages separately, but there is a big bag of "other language" that I reach into in desperation when asked a question in a foreign language, even if I know the question and the answer.  

Having never been to France before, or really having any idea what to expect, I felt like things were going ok as I got on the train from DeGaulle to find my hostel.  However, I forgot that many hostels (such as mine) have lock out times, and won't let you in until, say, 4pm.  That's a drag if it's 11 am and all you want in the world is a few hours sleep before heading out into Paris.  Instead, I dropped off my bag, and wandered the maze of Montmartre, eventually winding up at Sacre Coeur, and not knowing in any way what to do with that view.  I stumbled up and down the streets, and found a cafe, and promptly panicked at my first French person speaking French to me, and asked in a combination of French, Japanese, and Spanish for a glass of water.  When she just stared at me with a particularly French form of disdain, I violently tapped three fingers in the shape of a "w" against my chin, signing for "water".  I think I actually sank to the universal language of pantomime before she poured me anything to drink.

All ended well, as it became my regular morning place, where I would have several cups of coffee (Cafe' Creme, disastrously pronounced) and "read" LeMonde before wandering around the rest of the day.  Having regained some sense, I ordered everything in French, and enjoyed the lovely French habit of mocking you to your face by repeating everything you said in exactly the slightly wrong way you said it. 

The guy in the bunk beneath me was a saxophone player, who worked the streets and bridges all night.  He would come in around 5 or 6am and slam a few doors before taking a loud shower punctuated by flatulence and scream/yawning.  Then he would flop on the bed (lower photo), roll about twenty times in a circle, and then start scream/snoring.  

This was during the four months that Chris was in Taiwan, and so she usually had written me and sent it while I was asleep, so that as this wondrously loud man fell asleep, I would read about fleas, and insect swarms, and how Chris was bringing home a suitcase full of river rocks, because they are pretty.