Having dragged my sorry ass to the Eurostar this morning and promptly passing out for the entire trip (considering I was facing backwards the whole time it was pretty much a given if Sir Hock-A-Lot didn't want vomit all over his stomach at some point), I jumped off the train with my hectic baggage to look at the Garde Du Nord sign and think FUCK I'M IN NOT IN LONDON ANYMORE. This is when the weariness tagg-teamed with reality and I lost my shit. Started blubbering right there on the platform. Ta dahhhh!! And she's human.
Saw my dad waiting for me at the platform and practically fell into his arms. Not a good look. 'Hey dad, remember me? I'm your daughter, just way less sane and pretty much an emotional wreck.' Yeah, good to c u too dad. No, to be fair, he took my heaviest bag and we walked to the metro to my hotel, and as I proceeded to fade surely and steadily - using any pause in motion or nearby railing to try to sleep - he got the picture and let me sleep in his hotel room while mine was getting ready. I was out. Goneskies. It took all my strength to get up again and explore a little more.
So we went to the Arc de Triumph and up the top, with the gorgeous view, I had another cry. Hardcore I am. But hell, I can't help it, I MISS LONDON ALREADY. I'm useless.
Now, after filling our guts with an amazing meal of pasta and piniot grigio, I am well n truly ready to turn the lights out. Tomorrow is Moulin Rouge with my sister and her boyfriend - who we ran into at the Arc - so here's to dreams of scantily clad women and strategically placed feathers.... xx
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