Thank you, I love it!

I spent my last week in Paris shopping for gifts, reading and writing at the cafes and wandering the streets. I love to shop, but only for myself. I know this sounds really selfish, and it is, but shopping for other people stresses me out. I belong to a family that would rather strut down Main St in a metallic gold, puff painted Christmas sweatshirt than suggest returning it. This unwritten rule sucks for everyone as we all get, and give, crappy gifts once in a while but that’s the way it is. I envy those families that honestly and without malice tell family members that they hate their gift. My Midwestern upbringing makes that as likely as staying sober for Christmas dinner. I’m still blaming the divorce for the drinking. I figure I’ve got another two years before I have to find a new devastating life experience to drive me to the bottom of a nice Chianti. I’m sure something will come up.

So with my puff painted sweatshirt stuffed into the back of my closet only to come out when family members visit, I struggle to find a decent gift for everyone. You would think this would be simple. I’m in Paris after all, but I’m easily influenced by my environment, and what’s cool in Paris is not cool in Colorado. Trust me. I spent days browsing for the perfect object, a physical manifestation of my deep understanding and love for each family member. To be fair, the recipients are especially difficult. My nephews are teenage boys now and would much rather have money, and I'm happy to oblige, but this year I feel I have to get something tangible from Paris for them. Finding the right gift for my brother is virtually impossible and my boyfriend is VERY picky. So I shop and shop. I found the perfect gift for my mother, but decided to wait to make sure. I have to actually leave the store for at least 30 minutes to know if I really like something. Telling, isn't it? The next day, I return to buy the gift, but can’t find the gallery. I tried three more times with no luck. It must be God telling me that Mom doesn’t want an ink drawing of a nude woman painted on cardboard. Fine. It is with this stress and a few tears that I purchase all the goodies.

As if the exchange rate isn’t enough of an insult, I have to ship everything home because of the weight restrictions on trans-European Union airlines. You simply cannot bring more than 50 kg on the plane, no matter how much you are willing to pay, and anything over 23 kg is 10€/kg. Fine. I spend two days purchasing and packing the boxes only to unpack them at Le Poste because they are over the weight restriction. There is nothing like spreading your personal belongings all over the post office counter to really make you want to go home.

But the café crèmes were fantastic, the wine was sublime, and the walks were wildly romantic despite my solitary existence. I returned to the Louvre, the Rodin, Notre Dame, Pompidou, Luxemburg Gardens, and many other favorite spots. Paris really is beautiful. On my last day, I finally visited the Eiffel Tower where I climbed to the 2^nd floor and enjoyed the 360° view of the city. My trip was complete.