Jet lag hit me with the force of a thousand trucks. It gets worse each time I return to Paris. I’m soon over it, but damn…these first few days are a misery. If you’ve never suffered from it, this is the strangest sensation. You’re tired all the time, which is fairly normal, but it’s a different kind of tired. It’s an exhaustion that seems to root itself in your bones. (I’m writing this post nearly a week after the events occurred, so I might just have a cold, not jet lag. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) All you want to do is sit around and eat everything in sight. So that’s what I have been doing. I can’t complain too much because I really do love to eat. And I really do love going to the grocery store. It’s an adventure. Eating is my hobby. Eating is my passion. I wish that I could be a competitive eater and still keep my figure. In my old age, though, my metabolism isn’t what it once was, so I should probably not. Sad. I don’t want to be an old person. I love old people, but I want youthful plump skin. I didn’t appreciate my youth when I had it. I regret that now. What a depressing start to this post.

We didn’t do a damn thing for a while, but in retrospect, that was deeply necessary. I did have a personal victory that thrilled me to the core, though. Before we left for France, I decided to buy a SIM card so that I could use the Internet on my phone while out and about like I do back home. Never in a decade of traveling abroad have I ever had this ability, and it’s gotten to the point where I need it like a drug. So, I was hella happy to have that card to keep me plugged into the world. The day we arrived, I slipped it into my phone, and of course it didn’t work. I hurled it away from me in annoyance and didn’t try for a few days.

I figured out the problem after a bit of thinking, and now my phone works just like it does back home for next to nothing. I’m so in love with it. (I bought one from Le French Mobile. Fabulously easy if you use your brain for more than half a minute.) It’s hard to explain just how meaningful con edition is, since you all are probably reading this on your phone back home, but when you are used to not having the Internet in your pocket, it’s like rediscovering it all over again.

We ate at Iolandas again — because why not — and had an amusing time watching Paris lose its shit as they watched some soccer game against Iceland. People were shouting the national anthem, dropping food, screaming randomly as they watched the television. It made little sense to me. I’ve never understood the sport. Any of them. I only understand diving, but that’s thanks to Tom Daley.

Europeans seem to be even more passionate about soccer than Americans are about football. Like, I’ve seen the Super Bowl — I think — but nobody has ever acted quite as excited as these people did watching soccer. I didn’t get it, but it was a magnificent moment of anthropological investigation.

I was determined to reconfigure my internal clock, so I popped one of those magical Zzzquil pills, and let me tell you, reader, those things work well. I felt myself going drowsy, and then before I knew it, it was three in the afternoon. So, it didn’t work the way I wanted it to, but that’s okay, because something hilarious happened the next day.

We didn’t have tons of time to do anything since we were so sleepy, so we went over to the Louvre to get Jessica a new access card. I tell you every time I’m in Paris, so I’m going to do it again. There is no better deal in all of Paris than the Carte Louvre Jeune. It costs €15 if you’re under 26 years old (If you’re old like me and between the age of 27 and 30, it’ll cost you €35), and you can go in anytime without waiting in line. This part of the pass makes it worth it alone. I tell you, reader, there is literally nothing more satisfying or rewarding than royally sweeping past peasants who have been waiting in a mile long line. I like to toss my hair a little bit as I go through the VIP entrance and wink at a few of them. I think it really makes their day.

The Louvre is a mess right now since it is the peak of the tourist season, and there is construction all over. Allegedly, these improvements are set to be completed in 2017, but I have doubt. I have a second psychic sense when it comes to these things. The Grand Egyptian Museum was scheduled to be opening this year originally. I said no. It’s now scheduled tentatively to open late next year. That just means I have another reason to go to Egypt. So, I’m good with that.

After a McCafé macaron, I freshened up a bit in the restrooms and experienced some strange things. There are many Japanese and Chinese tourists in France, and it was fascinating to watch them waiting in the line and washing their hands. The Japanese people would not use the blow dryers, they pulled out full sized towels from their purses. I thought this was quite convenient and smart. I may start carrying a bag to carry a towel. Now, the Chinese people, I was not quite so impressed by. It might have been this one particular group, so I shan’t judge an entire culture. BUT…they kept farting and then laughing at each other. It was bizarre. It was as if they were in a contest with each other to hear who could pass gas in the most amusing fashion. I was disgusted, obviously, as was everybody else in the queue. I was also deeply amused.

The membership spot has moved from its old comfortable glass room to a tiny cupboard to a rather nice booth in the main ticket space. This is smart, but I think it makes this exclusive community more obvious, and I have no time to compete for valuable VIP favors from more of the general public. You feel me? Anyway, it didn’t take but a few minutes until Jessica was signing up for her card and I was chatting to the nice woman behind the counter. Things broke down when we reached Jessica’s email. Unlike the majority of people, she doesn’t have a business email or a basic one to use for the public. I won’t tell you what it is, but it is long and ridiculous, and it does make you laugh. The woman could hardly believe it.

Then, my very favorite part was when Jessica had to get her picture taken for the card. They’re always terrible pictures — except for the one I had in 2014, great lighting — and so the photographer always chuckles and says, “It is not a very good picture, but eh, what can I do?” They are referring to the quality of the image, not the beauty of the subject, but when it’s translated into English, it comes off a bit condescending. I burst into a fit of giggles every time. This was no exception. I was dead from laughter by the time we made it into the main galleries.

They were jam packed, so we headed to a bakery then back out to Clichy. It wasn’t wise to stay up too late, we were going to England the next day!