‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring — except for one very desperate mouse.

Not the squeaky kind. The kind you’re currently using to scroll through this blog at this very moment. You see, my then 10-year-old sister Alexandra had finally had enough of the “If you stay awake for Santa, or if you catch a glimpse of him, all you’ll receive is coal!” nonsense. She wanted pixelated proof of his existence, at the bare minimum. My mom and stepdad delivered — at least to create one more year of magic. What they didn’t realize is that Alexandra didn’t need for him to be a real person to feel the magic.

—

Last Christmas Eve, my family was busy scurrying about the house to make sure all the last-minute gifts were wrapped, labeled and neatly nestled among the heaping pile of presents under our tree. As my mom and Russ were carrying the last batch of presents into our “Great Room,” I noticed the distraught expression on my sister’s face. Furrowed eyebrows. Eyes on the floor. Not the kind of behavior a child generally exhibits the day before Santa delivers nearly three-quarters of every circled toy from the kids’ Christmas catalogue.

Once her very obvious internal battle of wills was quashed, my sister reluctantly dropped a question that is, in general, almost as dreadful to parents’ ears as much as the shocking, “Where do babies come from?”

“Mom, dad, is Santa real?”

Oh, how I felt her pain. I, too, was 10 when my best friend told me — two weeks before Christmas — that it was actually mom and dad eating the chocolate chip cookies I’d worked so hard at baking just hours before his grand arrival. I tried to play it cool. “I always wondered how he got into the apartments without chimneys,” I told her nonchalantly. But you better believe all hell broke loose when I got home from school that day.

“You lied to me!” I yelled at my mom. “How can he not be real? You mean that time I wrote Santa a note telling him he was allowed to come to my room to see Bubble [my pet tree frog], but I swore I wouldn’t peek, and then he left me a note saying, ‘Dear Katie, thank you for the cookies. Also, I like your frog,’ — that was you!?”

I remember at that point, I was crying on the step outside of our garage. My mom looked at me, sighed, and sat down next to me. “Katie,” she said calmly. “He can still be real if you want him to be.”

I chewed on that for a minute. To me, the magic of the holiday had vanished. The morphine-like rush of Christmas spirit that used to surge through me at the first sign of my favorite time of year became weaker and weaker. Why? Because to me, Santa had become such an integral part of the holiday.

Fast forward again to Christmas Eve last year. My mom and Russ stood perplexed, not knowing if their faces had given away the truth before they even had a chance to move their lips. She interrupted their thoughts. “You would tell me if he didn’t exist, wouldn’t you?”

I’m not a parent, so I can’t say how I would react if my own child asked me if Santa were real hours before his jolly self were to arrive. Who wants to send a child to bed miserable, with her newfound knowledge that the red light outside her window she used to squeal about being Rudolph’s nose is really just that satellite tower blinking in the distance?

“Of course he’s real,” Russ told her.

“I want proof,” my hard-headed sister shot back.

“Isn’t believing in him proof enough?” he replied.

“No. Not anymore. I’m going to leave him a letter. You guys leave your camera out by the cookies.” And with that, she dropped the subject.

—

After Alexandra was tucked into bed, I crept up the stairs to my mom and Russ’ room and opened the door.

“Crap!” Russ whispered. “How do you get rid of the glare?”

“I don’t know! Try this one!”

The laptop was out. The fingers were frantically moving, and the camera was flashing. Google was going to make a believer out of my sister that night, but the Google Santas weren’t quite cooperating with our Sony Cyber-Shot.

“Might I ask why you’re doing this?” I asked as the shutter was going off. “Shouldn’t you have been, perhaps, honest with her?” I asked, eyebrows raised. It seemed, at the time, like a really backward thing to do, and one that would most certainly breed a certain degree of resentment and feelings of betrayal upon learning the devastating truth.

“She asked us on Christmas Eve, Katie.”

Yes, she did. I most certainly do not condone lying. But I also understand the awe and wonder a child feels when she knows that on that night, Santa is taking time out of his incredibly busy schedule to come visit her. What is a parent to do?

—

“EEEEEEEEE OH MY GOSH. Oh my GOSH. BOO YA! SEE?! He’s REAL! SANTA IS REALLLLL!!!” The cookies were gone, and the camera had the proof she needed. Santa was real.

Two weeks later, the truth was out. Was she okay with it? Nope. She tried to reject it just as much as I had. But I never heard about it from her. She stuffed it down and moved on. Besides, Christmas was over.

A couple of weeks ago, my family and I celebrated our annual tree decorating night with apple cider and Santa hats, as is custom. Mannheim Steamroller poured out of the speakers as Alexandra chased our terrified goldendoodle Sam around the house, trying to clip a Santa hat onto his head with bobby pins. Once Sam had been defeated, Alexandra re-joined us at the tree with a know-it-all look on her face.

“Whats up?” I asked her.

“You know, I don’t care what y’all say. Santa is real.”

She grinned. I realized that she did know the truth. But she didn’t let Santa cease to exist like I had. “He can still be real if you want him to be.” The words were said to me, but taken to heart by her. I had chosen to let the magic of Santa Claus die when I was 10… she hadn’t. Why? Because I saw Santa as I understood him. He was a real man who gave me presents every Christmas. Alexandra realized he stood for something else.

As a Christian, I understand the trepidation some parents feel about introducing Santa to their children as a living, breathing man — not the mall Santas — but the one who lives at the North Pole with his elves. If we tell our children he’s real for a number of years — even going out of our way to prove he is — and then shatter that belief, are we priming them to question their faith in other things, such as their Christian beliefs? If Santa was so real for so long, what’s stopping them from thinking that Jesus living in their hearts is also just a myth? Children look to their parents for truth. Catch them lying, and it undermines their credibility as a whole and makes them look at lying as a less serious offense.

I believe Santa represents many things — how you choose to celebrate with Santa each Christmas is your own choice. To some, Santa is simply a sign of commercialism. To others, he’s a sign of goodwill, or perhaps a celebration of Saint Nicholas and his charitable nature. Santa Claus in the physical sense may be a myth — there is no single, living individual who wears a red suit, dines on a diet of millions of cookies and spends his Christmas Eves chimney shimmying — but his purpose is real, at least to those who choose to understand his non-commercial qualities. Why not introduce him as a man who once lived (Saint Nicholas) whose values we continue to celebrate today, but still enjoy the fun of today’s story of the elves and reindeer and leave out the cookies anyway?

Santa represents the spirit of giving. He represents forgiveness — even the children who don’t behave like perfect angels still wake up surprised (even if they don’t recognize how blessed they are). He represents joy, peace and love. So even when children come to learn this man isn’t alive, it’s wonderful when they do choose to keep his purpose alive and make him a real part of their Christmases each year. Santa the man may not be coming down our chimney in two weeks, but that hasn’t dampened my sister’s Christmas spirit one bit. She’s choosing to keep Santa around this year.

I was 14 when Alexandra was born, and, despite my mom and stepdad’s best efforts, I’ll admit — it was tough relating with my sister. When you’re in high school and interested in things like grades, popularity and boys, it’s not so easy to have a solid, sit-down heart-to-heart with your sister who is learning how to walk, graduating from diapers, and spitting up on almost everything. When I took her places, I got the “Oh, what a cute daughter!” “She’s not my daugh…” “It’s okay, I don’t judge.” So yes, in our earlier years, it was slightly challenging to create the sisterly “bond” my parents had hoped and prayed would blossom out of the simple fact that we were sisters, and sisters are supposed to be best friends, so why were we not?, etc.

This has all started to change — quickly. My sister is suddenly eons more mature than most girls her age. Sure, she’s interested in all the same things as other pre-teens: sleepovers, T-Swift and Justice (formerly my pre-teen favorite store, Limited, Too!), to name a few. But unlike most people her age — and even those much older — she “gets it.” What sixth grader talks about politics? She does. Gives her older sister dating advice? She does. “Katie, look. I’ve watched you and how you act with your [now ex-] boyfriend. He’s a jerk! Katie, you used to smile all the time. If a boy can’t make you smile, he isn’t worth your time. It’s that easy. You need someone who actually makes an effort to make you smile and makes you feel good about yourself.” (To which Goldie, her 70-something-year-old nanny and I slowly turn to one another, eyebrows raised). That’s when she was 10.

That girl’s brain is an incredibly well-organized sponge, with kernels of wisdom she’s absorbed that are carefully stored away and easily accessible when implementation is necessary. And, as all older sisters know — little sisters watch you like a hawk. You may not realize it, but they remember every boyfriend who did you wrong, how you handled it, and why he sucked so much (she was listening, carefully). Here I thought that my years of dating and venting to my mom and friends had gone straight over her head.

Not so much.

Today, my mom broke the big news: Alexandra has a boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Sixth grade, eleven years old. Boyfriend. My baby sister is dating a boy. A real, live, voice-cracking, middle school boy. This is real life. This is happening. I couldn’t believe my ears.

When I was 11, my general interests consisted of lizards, Furbies and tinted lip gloss, if I was feeling particularly bold. Boys? Sure, I had crushes on them. Did they ask me out? Let’s be real. My “pixie” haircut I mistakenly imagined would make me appear fashionable that really made me look like a boy because I was yet to hit puberty and wasn’t allowed to wear makeup didn’t exactly appeal to the gentlemen in my sixth grade class. No, I was not turning heads, so I went back to my lizards and green Razor scooter.

Apparently, the boys in Alexandra’s class feel differently about her. Terrifying and yet pride-inspiring for her older sister? Of course. I called her on her cellphone (because now all the kids have those, too, at the young age of eleven).

“Hellllllooo?”

“Hi Alexandra.”

“Oh, hey Katie. What’s up.”

“I hear you have some big news.”

“Yeahhhh… I do.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Hehe, yup.”

“What’s his name?”

“Pierce.”

“Oh, that’s a good name. Like Pierce Brosnan!”

“Who?”

“Nevermind. So how did he ask you?”

“Well, so my friend went up to him a little while back and asked him if he liked anybody in our grade, because she knew I liked him so she had to ask for me (Fact: it’s a law, apparently, that no middle school girl shall ever approach her crush head-on. A designated friend must act as the medium to talk up all positive traits of said girl to said crush). But then my enemy was standing right there and said, ‘Oh, she’s asking because Alexandra has a HUGE crush on you.'”

— Side Note — Said little boy grinned ear-to-ear when he heard my sister had a crush on him. Enemy’s plan foiled.

“So yesterday, he passed me a note in class asking if I’d go out with him. On the outside I was like, ‘Oh, yeah, sure thing.’ Because I had to play it cool, you know? Like you always do. (I learn something new about myself every day.) But on the inside I was like, ‘OH MY GOSH, YES, HOLY COW, YES, BOO YA!!!'” (boo ya to said enemy I mentioned above).

“Wow, that’s awesome! I don’t think I had a boyfriend in sixth grade.” (Me “playing it cool” like she mentioned — I most definitely did not have a boyfriend in sixth grade). “I think a guy sort of asked me out in seventh grade, but we never actually saw each other or hung out.”

“Oh yeah, well duh.” (Duh?) “It’s not anything like you and Cole. I’m in sixth grade. It’s really just a silly title, not like actual, serious dating.”

Thank. God. Because in seventh grade, breaking up with aforementioned seventh grade boyfriend via my friend Claire in a strongly worded note felt like a mini-divorce. Or, as one of my other friends said when I broke the news about Alexandra’s boyfriend situation to her, “In sixth grade, I would have been convinced I was marrying the guy some day.” Didn’t we all think every one of our middle school and high school boyfriends were the loves of our lives?

Luckily, my sister had watched me date all my high school, college and post-college boyfriends, and therefore brilliantly concluded that sixth grade romance was nothing more than a “silly title.” She has plenty of years of heartbreak and embarrassment from Russ, but I’m proud of her (and slightly embarrassed by it) for watching me all these years and learning that in the end, the dating game eventually works itself out — hopefully. In the meantime, I hope she continues to enjoy these romances for what they are, and when she does find the real thing some day, I hope she’s learned well from her older sister what a keeper really looks like.

“It’s cancer,” I stated matter-of-factly to my mom and Russ, as if I were telling them it was Thursday, or that the party was to begin at 6 o’clock. “I know it.”

I may have been six years old, but I knew even then that the world of deadly germs, chronic disease and a horrifying death by a pandemic far worse than the Spanish flu of 1918 had it out for me. Nineteen years later, I’m still not convinced it doesn’t. Why am I so exhausted? Why does it suddenly feel like my spinal column is being split in two when I take a deep breath? Why does my pelvis throb when I sit too long? WHAT IS THAT LUMP on my neck? (Nevermind the fact I’d just recovered from a sinus infection and my lymph nodes were triple their normal size). Can I get cat scratch fever from Tigger clawing my arm? Or that creepy zombie parasite I read cats can spread to people? WebMD just diagnosed me with a peptic ulcer. My thigh is throbbing, it’s obviously a blood clot working its way up to my lungs to kill me.

Think I’m kidding?

Welcome to the mind of a hypochondriac.

I’m the person who goes to my doctor and convinces him to prescribe me Tamiflu before I even have the flu because I hugged a person who does have the flu. I’m the person who takes wellness pills three times a day and carries hand sanitizer because I read on Facebook that two of my friends are sick. I’m the person who takes my temperature every five minutes because the reading five minutes before didn’t match the one five minutes before that (so which one is telling me the truth?) I’m the person who knows every symptom of every likely disease I could catch, and can rule out why it probably isn’t Disease A over Disease B (because Disease A also comes with eye twitching and heat flashes, so that can be ruled out). I impress my doctors with my keen health knowledge on possible diagnoses for myself and often hear, “You’ve clearly done your research,” and instead of feeling embarrassed, I feel smart. This, of course, makes their job easier, because I’ve already ruled out Diseases C, D and E for them.

Let’s explore the symptoms of hypochondria, according to the Mayo Clinic staff:

Symptoms

By Mayo Clinic staff

Hypochondria symptoms include:

• Having a long-term intense fear or anxiety about having a serious disease or health condition. Despite the fact that necrotizing fasciitis infects roughly only 750 people annually, I was terrified to go to sleep for a whole year when I was nine out of fear that I’d catch that awful, dreaded, horror movie-style, flesh-eating disease. Yes, I cried about it a few times, too. My dad and mom will remember this upon reading this and laugh. (P.S. — Googling the spelling of that disease was not necessary. I’ve done my fair share of research in the past, obviously).
• Worrying that minor symptoms or bodily sensations mean you have a serious illness.
  My stomach ache during Chi O rush senior year landed me in the ER. Hey — the guy at the clinic told me it sounded like pancreatitis, even though I did mildly exaggerate my symptoms. Don’t flirt with death, guys.
• Seeing doctors repeated times or having involved medical exams such as magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), echocardiograms or exploratory surgery. Cat scans? Check. Ultrasounds? Check. EKGs? Check. Sonograms? Check. Endoscopy? Check. XRays? Dozens. Almost opted for laporoscopic surgery, even though the doc thought my pain was probably just “stress?” Double check.
• Frequently switching doctors — if one doctor tells you that you aren’t sick, you may not believe it and seek out other opinions. I’ve made a few second opinion calls. Doctors do have “off days,” after all.
• Continuously talking about your symptoms or suspected diseases with family and friends. Sorry guys…
• Obsessively doing health research. My Safari browser now shows WebMD and Mayo Clinic among my top 10 most recently visited websites on a weekly basis. Also Medicine.net, Drugs.com and Health Tap. Googling symptoms and getting Yahoo! Health and ehealthforum.com questions, and realizing I’m suffering from the same affliction someone else posted about three years prior is a favorite hobby.
• Frequently checking your body for problems, such as lumps or sores. But really, why are the lymph nodes behind my ears always swollen? WHAT IS MY BODY FIGHTING?
• Frequently checking your vital signs, such as pulse or blood pressure. My heart is beating a little too fast for comfort lately, and my thermometer is a few years old. I’m not sure it’s too accurate, because I swear I have the chills.
• Thinking you have a disease after reading or hearing about it. That’s how most of my self-diagnoses come about, after all.

Am I crazy? Luckily, I can poke fun at myself. But sometimes I wonder — if I ignore the symptoms because I want to prove that I am in fact not a hypochondriac, is that when I’ll finally succumb to multiple myeloma, or an abdominal wall defect, or collagenous colitis? Am I stuck in a Catch-22?

“You mean there’s a catch?”

“Sure there’s a catch”, Doc Daneeka replied. “Catch-22. Anyone who wants to get out of combat duty isn’t really crazy.”

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but if he was sane, he had to fly them. If he flew them, he was crazy and didn’t have to; but if he didn’t want to, he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle. (“Catch-22” by Joseph Heller)

Well, these diseases are real… maybe not immediate… or likely, at all. Rational? Mmm, probably not. Looking out for myself? Absolutely. You can bet that when I get Non-Hodgkins lymphoma, I’ll know by Stage 0.5, or when I’m falling victim to colitis, I’ll have already cured myself.

While it’s a burden for my wallet and mentally draining staying up until 4 a.m. convincing myself I have pharyngitis even though it’s just allergies, I’m convinced I might save my own life someday. Or yours.

By the way, I’d make for a terrible diagnostician.

Again, I apologize for being severely overdue. This trip has been more seeing doing seeing than sitting resting sitting. But, I happen to be sitting and resting in my hotel room in the Dordogne Valley right now, so I figured I’d take advantage of this time to give a brief update. I left off with last Wednesday night.

Thursday, July 28

Vacations are supposed to be relaxing. Words like “stress,” “hurry” and “argg!” (linked to stressful hurrying) should be replaced with words like “peaceful,” “relaxing” and “at ease.” Ha. I thought our pre-Eiffel Tower tour was going to leave me with a stress-induced hernia.

Problem #1. Rain.
My mom had diligently studied weather.com prior to departing our hotel. Zero percent chance of rain. Sunshine. I believe that’s what it predicted. As we sat down on a bench under the tower to chow down on a freshly fried pile of pomme frites, we felt a drop. Then another. Then…tons. It began to pour. My mom and I ran to the restrooms, since we figured we would need to go prior to our 7:30 tour (after noticing no downwards pipes, we attempted to be logical and figured plumbing was impossible all the way up there).

Which leads to Problem #2: Restrooms. Apparently in France, if a bathroom is being cleaned, people can’t use it simultaneously. The line of women in the pouring rain began to pile up, and up, and…well, if you’d stacked each woman waiting to use the restroom into a vertical line, they’d probably be able to reach the middle tier of the Tower. My mom and I had 10 minutes to spare until we would miss our tour and, in a panic over the fact that we wouldn’t–so we thought–be able to go to the bathroom on top of the tower, we grabbed Alexandra (our interpreter) and sprinted to the closest porta potty. Well, this line was also long, and apparently the porta potties in France are far more advanced than ours in the States because they clean themselves automatically. This, of course, takes about two minutes in between each porta potty user. Desperate, frantic, panicking–words that shouldn’t be used on vacation–we asked Alexandra to kindly ask the ladies in the front of the line if we could cut because we had a tour in five minutes. They agreed, so mom, Alexandra and I hopped in…and so did one of them. What? This wasn’t part of the agreement. There was a stranger in the bathroom, and she had the gall to stand there and watch me as I…yeah.

Me: “Mom, I can’t pee. This is too stressful.”
Mom: “It’s ok, let’s just focus. You can do this. Take your time. But not really. ”
Me: “There’s a complete stranger watching me. I don’t think I can.”
Mom: “Katie, you have to. Come on.”
Me: “It’s too much pressure being put on me. Oh my God, help! I’m freaking out.”
Mom: “You have to go. Go. GO. GO!!!”
ME: “Ahhhhh IIII can’t!!!!!”

There was a very nice restroom on every level of the Eiffel Tower.

I know I’m incredibly behind in my updates, but to be honest, vacation has put me in a very lazy mood. Which is a good thing, of course. At this very moment I’m feeling very lazy and sleepy, but I will do my best to detail the blur of the past three days.

Monday, July 25
The Louvre. What a humongous structure. I had no idea that I’d spend the next three to four hours of my life in an art museum seeing some of the most famous pieces of art in the world (Mona Lisa was too small, in my opinion). Alexandra, on the other hand, had no idea she’d be exposed to so much nudity in such a relatively short time span either. The scenarios went something like this:

(Enter new exhibit) Alexandra: “Naked women! GROSS.”
Next exhibit: “UGH naked little boys.”
And the next: “I’m sorry, but what was their obsession with naked people? That’s just GROSS. GROSS. GROSS.” This continued into the next day when we went to see impressionist painters at the Musee D’orsay. “Seriously? I don’t want to look at that woman’s chest AGAIN.” Good thing a trip to the nude beaches isn’t on our agenda.

Post-Louvre we ventured off to various parts of the city. I was bummed to find out that day that my personal souvenir shopping would be limited due to the unGODly exchange rates here. $50 for new mascara? No thank you. The big event of the day was our guided car ride through the streets of Paris by two cousins, Felix, 24, and Stan, 22. My mom and I ended up with Stan, who mumbled his way through the tour.

Mom: “Oh that’s beautiful! What is it?”
Stan: “That is a church, ma’am.”
Mom: “Uh…yeah, I know, Stan. I can see that. WHICH church?”
Stan: “Oh. Uh..”

It was off to a great start…except it barely started to begin with. We piled into the 1984 Citroen 2 CV (at least that’s what I believe it was) with Stan while Alexandra and Russ hopped in with Felix. To our delight, he already had a bucket of not-so-chilled champagne waiting for us! As he turned the key…as he turned it again…as he…as he turned…it wouldn’t start. Not one bit. But what are cousins for? Felix came to the rescue, pushing Stan’s car, Stan, my mom and myself through the horrifically packed streets of Paris in two cars that, as we learned by the expressions on every pedestrian’s face, do not exist anymore at ALL. The pedestrians and cafe diners LOVED us! They snapped photos. They pointed. They stopped dead in their tracks. It reminded me of driving through a herd of cows who refused to move–they were so dumbfounded by our cars! An hour into our drive and two glasses of champagne later, it was time for a pit stop. I found the public restrooms outside of a beautiful church that overlooked all of Paris. But, to my dismay, the clerk inside of the restroom wanted five euros. I didn’t have five euros! He said it’s okay, you can pay after you pee. Well, after I left the stall, I saw he was distracted by two cute girls. It was my perfect chance. I darted out. “Madame!! Cinq euros!!!” No. Way. Mister. That is ridiculous. In America we go for free (except in Johnny Rockets restaurants, where it costs a quarter). I darted out of there and back to my luke warm champagne car tour. By the end of it all, my mom and I still had over half a bottle left. I’m currently looking at it right now. Apparently the maids didn’t take it upon themselves to enjoy the rest of it while cleaning our room. Oh well.

Later that night we stopped at a little street-side cafe for dinner, which very much mimicked the taste of my meal on the airplane. That’s not a good thing. I believe I passed out right after that meal. Like I said, these past few days have been a blur.

Tuesday, July 26
Tuesday was really just a bunch of museum hopping and window shopping (rhyme unintended, I swear). I finally bought a practical work-related blazer for my unemployed self, then went back to the hotel to shower and take a much-needed nap. Later that day, we ventured over to Sainte Chapelle, a church with incredible stained glass windows.

It was beautiful. Afterward I realized I was exhausted, so I found myself a Red Bull to sip on (I KNOW I need to stop drinking them, I felt nauseous afterwards). We ventured back to the hotel, tidied up, and walked next door to a delicious cafe. Of course, the menus at these places are complicated, so my family and I usually turn to Alexandra, “the secret weapon,” as guidance. But she refuses! “You guys put so much pressure on me! I can’t handle it!” But, Alexandra, I just want water, how do you ask…”Sir, can she get water?” “No, Alexandra, in French!” “But I don’t want to!”

Finally, we got her to come out of her shell, and our waiter was so thoroughly impressed, he proposed to her. She was beet red for the rest of that meal. Maybe I was slightly jealous of her early collection of marriage proposals.

Nah.

Wednesday, July 27
We shopped all day long today. Really, that’s about all we did. I’d love to share a more exciting moment, but I have none. We did have a delicious dinner by the river tonight, but tomorrow should be more interesting. We are going to go to Notre Dame in the morning, go see several beautiful gardens, and top it off with the Eiffel Tower. Voila! Then it’s off to Versailles!

It’s midnight, but it’s also 5 o’clock somewhere! So since it’s late afternoon on my body clock, I’m wide awake and am supposed to be wide awake again in about six or seven hours. Plane ride snoozing did not happen. I had forgotten about the treatment business class passengers receive.
“Would you like some champagne?” Of course.
“How about some wine?” Why not?
“Another glass?” What’s the harm?
I forgot about the harm. I should have remembered what happened to me the last time I flew abroad and was served bottomless Malbecs. High air pressure and wine do not mix well. By the time I woke up, I had quite possibly the world’s worst migraine ever. Since Excedrin Migraine is my cure-all medicine, I took it on an empty stomach. Within 30 minutes, I was migraine-free, but my stomach…well, it wasn’t faring so well. By the time my family piled into the taxi cab, I was swearing off pre-vacation plane ride celebrating forever.
“I think I’m going to be sick. Right…now.”
The taxi driver, who was in the middle lane of the highway, quickly pulled off to an exit. Russ offered two or three Kleenex…not quite sure what that would have done, and the taxi driver grabbed two copies of his drivers license and amazingly pulled together some origami-esque, make-shift basket-like contraption (I still don’t know how he did it). As amazing as it was though, that still would have failed to fulfill its original purpose. Alexandra offered the only reasonable solution–pull over. It wasn’t the most grand of entrances to Paris.

An hour and one chocolate croissant later, I was feeling much better. We checked into our hotel, the Hotel Saint Germain de Pres, and proceeded to wander around the town. As it turns out, the French have been extremely friendly. They get a kick out of Alexandra because they can’t quite figure out why the kid is the only one who can speak their language. Later in the day we managed to catch the Tour de France ride through the city. That was interesting, but not quite as entertaining as one of the events preceding their grand arrival. The roads were blocked off by gates and members of the French National Guard (or some equivalent of that). Essentially, you were NOT allowed to cross the street the bikers were riding in on. Much to everyone’s viewing pleasure, one little old French lady in a bright red jacket decided to defy that rule. She hopped the gate, ran across the street, and ended up smack in the arms of a French National Guard. I didn’t know the noises she made were humanly possible. This lady was maybe 5′ 1″, and it ended up taking the strength of two huge men to carry her back across the street–literally. She wasn’t calmly walked. She was thrown over their shoulders while she spat and squawked and yelped and snorted and yipped and grunted and…yeah. It really was a spectacle. The cherry on top of the cake came when they tried to get her back over the fence. She wouldn’t calmly walk back into the open gate. She dropped to the ground, curled into a ball, and they had to roll her body back through the gate. It reminded me of trying to stuff my cat Tigger into her cat carrier to go to my parents’ house the other day. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get my camera out quick enough to capture the entire thing on camera. I did, however, capture some amazing break dancing going on outside of the cafe we stopped at for dinner. I hope you enjoy, and I’ll keep everyone updated. It’s off to the Louvre tomorrow!

I had to use Google Translator to create that post headline, and I’m sure I should try and download some English-to-French translation app on my phone, because I am headed to France for two weeks come Saturday! Now, most of my friends know that I am anticipating this trip with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I will be in a luxurious country for two weeks. I plan on waking up every morning to fresh roasted French coffee and chocolate croissants–I seriously cannot complain.

“But they HATE Americans!” says every single person I have spoken with about my upcoming trip. “Seriously Katie, don’t be surprised if you’re treated like total, Grade A American white trash. They hate us SO MUCH.” My mom and stepdad, Russ, like to say, “Katie, when they are rude to you, just remember that if it wasn’t for us Americans, they’d be speaking German today, because we totally saved their tushes in WWII.” I’m sure that would go over wonderfully with the snobby cafe waiters in Paris. I realized that imitating a British accent to cover up my American-ness would probably be a failure, and pretending to be Spanish would fail miserably as well, seeing as I know about 1/3 of the language and speak it with a 100% genuine American accent. At this point, you’re probably wondering what options I have left. I know two words in French, “Bonjour” and “Oi.” Well, I have a secret weapon–my nine-year-old sister.

Alexandra is a rising 4th grader at the Dallas International School, which just happens to be completely run by French immigrants. The school’s curriculum requires the students to be fluent in French by the fifth grade; therefore, Alexandra could totally pass off as a Parisian…who happens to be chilling with three grown Americans. Anyway, she and I had a conversation last night via phone. It went something like this.

Me: “Alexandra, do you know what an insult sounds like in French?”
Alexandra: “Uh, duh.” (kids are so sassy now!)
Me: “Fantastic. Good. Let’s make a deal.”
Alexandra: “I can do that. What’s the deal?”
Me: “I can’t speak any French.”
Alexandra: “I know, you have a really bad accent when you try.”
Me: “Uh huh, well your Spanish sounds kind of funny too. Anyway, Alexandra, those Parisians are, most likely, going to hate my guts. I’m American and have no way of communicating with them. Therefore, they will probably insult me. A lot. So, I need you to insult them back whenever they say something rude to me.”
Alexandra: “OH. I know SO many French insults. I…I kind of know some bad words in French. (At this point she drops her voice to a whisper.) Idiot…Stupid. I can call them stupid if you want.”
Me: “Sounds perfect.”
Alexandra: “We are totally the best sisters ever.”
I agreed. End of convo.

I have a plan. I will enjoy my souffles, cheese and wine, and if any of the French try to give me trouble, Alexandra, no doubt, has my back. So je vais à la France, I will be sending updates come Saturday!

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