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Eiffel Tower? Check.

Notre Dame? Check.

The Louvre? Check.

Mastering the underground Metro train? Only got lost once. That’s a check.

Butchering my high school French? Cheque. (Desole, Parisians.)

Yes, I’m plowing my way through the City of Lights for the first time, and I gotta say, it’s lovely. Beautiful buildings, beautiful language, not a rude local encountered yet (except for those chicks who work the billet window at the Metro; they’re salty as hell, but I can’t blame them; how many ignorant, clueless Americans can one take in a day?). All in all, so far, so bon.

Ok, I’ll let up on the choppy Francais. My high school French teachers, Monsieur Fellows and Madame Ellis, once told me when I have my very first dream in French and can understand it, that means I’m officially bi-lingual. I had such a dream spring of my senior year, but haven’t uttered a word of it in at least 12 years. Perhaps with a touch-up course or two I could be back in action? Could the French even stand it?

Because I have got to figure out why I’m getting so many stares and whispers everywhere I go here. And no, I’m not dressed like a harlot. I think its the whole blonde American in the Britney-esque chapeau. So I’ll take it. I just want to be able to banter right back.

On second thought, not being fluent in French may actually be good for me for now. Even opinionated editors need to shut up and be humble once in a while.

Thank you, Paris. Thank you.