"I'm leaving, on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again." The words play liltingly in my head, swirling a simple la dee da melody. I am on a jet plane to Paris. Everything about this seems as natural to me as getting in the car and driving to Tucson. Perhaps because I was on this exact flight just 2 months ago. Normal, yes, this feels normal to me.

Now, if only the airlines would enforce a few more of the below rules, not only would the flight feel normal, but it might also be downright enjoyable:

Rule Number 1:
Thou shalt not tilt thy seat back at full force within 2 seconds of takeoff.

The girl in front of me had obviously never read this in her airline etiquette guide, and as soon as the plane tilted upwards at a 1-degree angle, her seat made the near-fatal attempt to introduce itself to my knees. Fortunately (for her), I am height-impaired, not to mention overly tolerant of most airline misbehavior.

Rule Number 2:
Thou shalt not chatter loudly and incessantly especially when the lights are dimmed and every passenger is attempting to readjust their circadian rhythm.

Two rows up from me, a lively young lady had apparently just discovered her vocal chords. So excited was she about this discovery that she showed no restraint in sharing the full range of her conversational ability with the whole plane. How deeply I found myself longing for earplugs...or the courage to give her a swift blow to the jaw!

Lack of these rules aside, I arrived without incident to Paris. And as is becoming the norm, I left my ability to sleep in Arizona, awakening to a dead city at 5 AM. I proceeded to take in my surroundings and settle myself into the studio I will call home for the next 4 weeks. Despite winning the hard fought battle of Melissa vs. the iron, (actually, it was my roommate who won), the battle was all for naught. Upon arrival, I opened the closet door, and lo and behold, what stared me in the face but a full-size iron. Considering my extreme distaste for the task of ironing, I now find it quite amusing to be sharing my living space with two of these domestic monsters.

My studio is ideally located on a pedestrian square in the heart of Paris, just blocks from Notre Dame and other must-see landmarks. It has already revealed to me its peculiarities, most of which have to do with the bathroom. In my travelling experiences, I have found that while most countries share many things in common, they choose to differentiate themselves (and befuddle their guests) through their water closets. For instance, my bathroom does not have a plug — not a single outlet to be found. That means that I have less than 24 hours to figure out how I am going to do my hair in the morning, as the only plug appears to be in the small kitchenette. I suppose the microwave door will have to serve as a mirror for the next month!

Another peculiarity is the bathroom door which opens inwardly and directly blocks the john in the corner. The door stopper meant to prevent the door from actually hitting the porcelain god is right in front of the toilet, and I have already managed to trip over it and stub my toe. Unable to reach the good folks of HGTV to request a home makeover, I decided to explore my outside surroundings via a little jog. (For those of you who are concerned, I am pleased to announce that no wrong turns took place during this endeavor)!!

To my great delight, I discovered the Seine is only a few blocks from my apartment. I wasn't the only one out for a run this morning, but I scarcely noticed the others, for my heart was completely and utterly overwhelmed with my surroundings. As my feet pounded the pavement, I nearly exploded with the realization of my great fortune to be in this magnificent city. The Louvre appeared imposingly to my right, beckoning me to revel in its collections. Tempted as I was, I continued running...and running....and running, paying no attention to the distance I was covering. By the time I reached the Eiffel Tower, my reverie broke, and my body reminded me that it was still on Phoenix time (midnite), and it was none too keen on running the 3+ miles back to my plugless apartment. Strangely enough, my stomach had shifted to Paris time, and its grumblings directed me to an outdoor market, fully expecting to find an array of fresh fruit and maybe a chocolate crepe. To my chagrin, I had stumbled across the live bird market, and wasn't much in the mood to eat a crowing rooster or colorful parakeet. So I continued running, and until that moment, I didn't know it was possible to sleeprun, but I shall now add it to my array of odd talents.

I'm off now to a free organ concert at Notre Dame. My work starts tomorrow, so I leave you now with a wish for a wonderful week.

Cheers,
Melissa