L.A. in the U.K.: Paris for the poor: "Aside from the hairy sheets, the B.O., and the blood, this hostel's really not so bad."

We left London at 10:30 pm on Thursday night with high anxiety. Rachel has a weak stomach and sometimes, no matter how much will power and dramamine we have on board, her belly gets the best of her. Ben, Rachel's boyfriend (see post below), is generally more concerned about Rachel's nausea than Rachel is about Rachel's nausea. Ben's on the premed track and the only things standing in his way of doctoring are his critical reading skills and his vomit-phobia. Naturally, Ben packed a dozen or so trash bags, just in case. Unnaturally, he forgot to take them out of his suitcase that he stored under the bus with the rest of the luggage. But luck was on our side that night. We wrestled our way to the front of the bus line and landed the best seats in the house. Rach popped a few no-nausea pills, Ben taught me how to look terrifying enough to ward off those who might be interested in sharing a seat with me, and we were on our way.

We arrived in Paris at 7 am the following morning, on 2 hours of sleep, which were interrupted by shouts from the French border control to get off the bus and show our passports. We navigated our way through urine-drenched tunnels and a foreign metro system to meet our friends at a patisserie at La Bastille in central-ish Paris. With the first utterance of Matt and Ashley's immaculate French tongues, our fate for the rest of the weekend was set. Rachel, Ben and I followed the two of them around Paris, open-mouthed and starry-eyed--shouting, over and over again, the few French words we had learned (as though it were socially acceptable to do so.)

Friday night, we attended Shabbat services at the largest reformed synagogue in Paris. When we arrived, we knocked on the synagogue door, were spotted by a hidden camera and then greeted by a security guard, who demanded our passports and then asked how many times we'd each been to Israel and whether or not we were B'nai Mitzvahed. To assure him of my heritage, I asked if he wanted to join Matt and me in a singing of the Misheberach. Saying "no" was the worst decision he made all day. Despite the church-like decor of the service (white walls, bright red carpet, wooden, cushion-less pews, stain-glassed windows), we felt the warmth of home when the congregants stopped their kibbitzing in French to sing in Hebrew.

We spent the rest of the weekend walking miles and miles through the city--which felt like I was exploring the life-sized doll house version of what I've always imagined Paris to be.