Yesterday was pretty much a write off. Neither Lindsay nor I got much sleep on the plane, so by the time we made it to our apartment (4 different trains, probably slightly more than an hour), we both basically crashed. Like I was so tired I wasn't even hungry anymore, despite the fact I had eaten only a meager sliver of iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing and a dry bun with margarine in a 20ish hour time period.
Three or four hours later, we both woke up somewhat refreshed and ventured out to a cafe near our place, where I had a tartine (like a croque but open faced) and she had some ravioli. Not the best thing I've ever eaten, but a huge step up from my previous meal. We tipped too much (tip is included in the bill here, it's not customary to leave more), came home, watched a movie and then slept some more.
After 11 hours of sleep, I felt nearly normal again. We had breakfast and then headed down to "the historic center" of Paris and took in Notre Dame and all of its flying butresses. By the way I don't actually know what a butress is, I just like saying it. We walked around Ile-de-Cite, Ile-St-Louis, and the Latin Quarter for most of the afternoon, stopping for a fairly mediocre lunch (I had soupe a l'oignon gratinee, Lindsay had a tartine with parma ham, tomatoes and mozzarella on it). We also each got a scoop of dark chocolate ice cream from Berthalon. This is the ice cream I mentioned in my essay, and totally lived up to the memory. Basically like eating a frozen chocolate bar, actually that's a shitty analogy. It was just the best ice cream I've ever had.
Anyhow, we attempted to come home around supper, but there was some sort of delay on the metro, so we went and had some beers. Once we got home, Lindsay decided to go get us pizza from the place next door. It's a really good pie.
Lindsay quotes of the day:
"I just took a mouth-shit in the Seine." (After spitting about half her ice cream into the river.)
"Whatever, I'm not Francinian." (She meant French.)
"Je m'appelle Canadienne." (My name is Canadian.)
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