Paris, the Third

Now, having spent the previous night rolling around on a dirty French hotel floor and muttering delusional-ly to myself for several hours, I wake up the next morning feeling 100% perfectly fantastically never-been-better fine.

What.

All right. So I wake up, and after not really having much to eat over the past week or so, my stomach decides it wants one, and only one thing: McDonalds.

Yes, laugh if you will. Call me an ignorant stupid American if you must, but I'm not going to be 10.50 for some more chicken liver, okay? Thanks.

And you know, there's something very telling about France when, instead of a goofy looking clown with a big red smiley everywhere, in a Paris McDonalds they have pictures of poverty stricken children and revolutionaries.

"Well, that explains that," I say to myself.

The next few days were pretty normal. I met up with our totally awesome and rad friend KC and proceeded to wander through the Louvre and all of its insanity. We drank awesome hot cocoa and listened to some Chinese tourists try to converse with the French waiter... in English, then debated the legitimacy of the Mona Lisa and the Venus D. Milo as art. I remained skeptical and unconvinced.

I did, however, manage to stumble into a gallery in the very back of the top floor of the Louvre that had about a dozen paintings done by my favorite painter ever, so that was pretty fantastic.

But after one enough nights of vomiting in Paris, I had decided that that was enough for me. One Big Mac later, and I was ready to head on over to Amsterdam to see the windmills... among other things.