Yet Somehow, We're Here

After joking around with us about missing our flight at a time when neither of us were in the mood - in fact we had to hold each other back from strangling the #(*&@#$!... the EasyJet reservation agent informed us that there was, in fact, another flight to Paris at 20h that night.

Great.

I had barely slept the night before as I'd been out until 3:00a with Jessie and Christian at an 'underground' party that was held in a *very* old cigarette factory that looked a bit like the building in that shitty horror flick 'The Haunted Mansion.' Lotsa fun, shitty music, photos to follow.

At any rate, we're in Paris and we made it to our hotel on the appointed day of our reservation (barely), and were able to check in (again, just barely) before the late receptionist left for the night; she was, by the way, uniformly unpleasant, a fact I (magnanimously, I felt, considering her verbage) attributed to the lateness of our arrival and was willing to forgive. This was premature.

The next evening as we were leaving for dinner she was, again, on duty and was again completely rude to both of us over a very minor request on our part. She is not Parisian, she is not even from France, she is, without a doubt, an American working there. Pourquoi est-ce que je ne suis pas étonné que la personne la plus grossière que j'ai jamais rencontrée pendant mes voyages en France n'est pas Francais, mais Americain?