Foch.

As I rolled out of bed this morning, I was definitely feeling the effects of having spent the previous day hiking through the snow. However, there was a renewed spring in my step, as my day today was filled with "acclimating activities" -- a coffee group for the American Church's Women Group, in addition to an appointment with the head of Girl Scouts International about the possibility of volunteering. (Can you even imagine the potential for the uniforms? Look out Troop Beverly Hills, because here comes Troop Champs Élysées!)

Rummaging through the bare bones of the hotel room, I found a tolerable metal tray and packed up my carefully thought-up "snack to share." As we don't have the supplies to cook yet, and I would be walking about three miles to get to my destination, I stole a idea from an old Real Simple: orange slices and dark chocolate. As I am sure this will not come as a surprise, the citrus in Paris is divine. Succulent, fragrant and, to top it off (literally), with beautiful dark green leaves still attached to the stem. Since the metal tray had previously held dish-washer tablets, I chose the most leafy of clementines, and plucked the waxy, symmetrical leaves to use as my doily. Feeling clever with my snack packed carefully in cast-away plastic bags and packaging, I started my journey down Boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle after smooching my husband farewell. As I sauntered past the "soldes" signs at Galeries Lafayette and Printemps, the sun began to peek its head out from behind the thick gray clouds that had been shrouding the city for days. Life was good.

As I rounded the Champs Élysées, I glanced at my watch, only to realize that I would not be punctual. I made peace with this as I figured the ladies would understand my tardiness since I was still a newbie. Avenue Foch was my last and final turn according to the map, and as I briskly walked past the gorgeous homes with their perfectly manicured balconies and expensive foreign vehicles lining the street, I began to dream about the palace where I was to spend my next two hours. Foch -- which is pronounced strikingly similarly to a word my students used to adorn my desks with -- would soon be the word I was repeating rapidly in my head. Round and round I went along Foch's circle, taking the tangential streets, only to walk back, dismayed and ready to try another possible route. At one point I actually left Paris proper, which was both exciting and overwhelmingly disconcerting at the very same time. My only interactions were with a jogger who smiled at me, and a shabbily dressed, ill-kept man who followed me for about three paces, until he did not get the response he had hoped for (the first time I was glad I did not speak the language). As I had just about given up, I came upon a map that for a mere second gave me false hope. As I looked under the "L" section for the name of the street, it would be just my luck that this particular map had been improperly installed, with the "L" section being covered by the frame of the structure. My silver tray, clementines, dark chocolate and I sulkily went back down Avenue Foch, repeating its name at a very loud decibel in my head. It had happened: I was sad in Paris. The upside? I now had the entire bag of French chocolate to drown my sorrows in.

And, as any good American would have done when feeling disheartened and displaced in Paris, I went and visited Julia Child's flat on Rue de Loo (the nickname she and her husband gave their street, Rue de l'Université)! This was going to be my little detour en route to the American Library of Paris, where I was going to check out a good book, give my feet a break, and use the loo. As I went to pull my map out of my bag to head towards my respite, the map, like my tissues from earlier today, had evaporated. Here I stood: no map, no sense of direction, only my snack for the gathering that never was. I was on a steady decline.

As I would have normally done had I been stateside, I would have called up Matt to complain. This Parisian, however, is still sans mobile. So, I set out to do the one errand I needed to do prior to my meeting at Girl Scouts International. Matt had rehearsed with me how to stay stamp this morning (very similar to tampon), and since I was as close to PMSing as possible, minus the "M," I thought that it was a good time to get the stamp I needed to send Devon's birthday card. As I scrounged up the courage to say the three words that would secure me my stamp, the impish lady behind the counter spatted off something so quickly, that I became flustered and choked on my words. She looked at me with confusion, and back I reverted to my mother tongue. "Stamp to the USA, please." She glared at me with two beady little eyes, and handed it over. At that very moment, after the day I had had, if I could have afforded the stamp, I would have shipped myself back there too.