It will only happen once

Despite my refusing to believe it, our first week in Paris is coming to an end.

And since I'm new to the blogging thing, here's what you missed:

On day trois, reality bitch slapped me big time. I was grabbing lunch at the usual creperie that I've frequented one (or two or three) too many times. Cheap, fast, and really, really good. With a freshly made crepe in my hands, I reached into my bag to pay. And I felt... nothing. That's right. Wallet. Gone.

My first thought was "OHHHH, shit." My second thought, "It's totally in my room." My third thought, "Oh god, it's definitely not in my room."

Unfortunately, I was right. It was definitely not in my room. Or in my suitcases. Or in the classroom. Or in one of the 5 or 6 purses I brought. I couldn't believe that I had just lost everything on my third day in a foreign country-- cash, credit cards, license, and most importantly MARC JACOBS! I started to cry, then did what anyone else would do... I called Mom.

Now, Mom-- I love ya to death, but the panic I felt from across the Atlantic made me want to vomit.

Luckily, nothing can really shock the director, Dr. Ed Costello. He calmly suggested that I return to the restaurant where I last had it, and reminded me that everything can be replaced. He then proceeded to tell us straight up horror stories of students on past trips. Including one girl who needed an emergency root canal after drunkenly chipping her tooth, and another who broke both her ankles and had to be sent home. Suddenly, misplacing my wallet didn't seem so bad.

So, I returned to the restaurant, and out of the sheer grace of God, they had found my wallet. I wanted to hug each and every person in there. But since zat is not french, I just thanked them over and over and over again. Until I realized that my one hundred euros cash had conveniently been plucked from their usual holding place. I knew it was a long shot, but I asked them in the most polite way I could...Where's my money.

Here's what I think went down. I dropped my wallet after I paid at dinner. The server found it, swiped my 100 bucks, then figured the rest was useless. They probably assumed I would return, and when I did, they told me they'd found it "in ze toilettes." Yeah, okay. As long as Marc was safely in my hands again, I figured that it was just a really expensive life lesson -- LEARNED.

That night, we decided to go out on the town. We met a cute french boy on a bike (let me rephrase, we met Charlie from Charlie & The Chocolate Factory, on a bike) who gave us directions and showed us to where the cool bars are. Apparently, the "cool bars" are now charging 19 euros for a burger and 12 to wash it down. Uh, thanks but no thanks, Charlie. We retreated all the way back to our hostel, still a little tipsy from the 3 euro wine we drank earlier. And although the day wasn't exactly a success, a bad day in Paris beats a good day just about anywhere else.