Parisians — consider yourself warned: they’re back and they want YOU to tell them where they’re going. They tend to have maps and guides enough to fill a Virgin Megastore, but some how I still get caught in the “where do we go” crossfire. (Friends reading this are probably laughing their asses off.) I’m the verylast person on the planet you should ask for directions; unless that is, you want to take a detour to Asia. “Just keep going until you see Chinese people?” was my geographical genius at work when someone asked how to get to the 13th.

I’ve done my duty a few times when family or friends came to visit, gotta pay your dues. But you can only see the Eiffel Tower so many times before you turn to your travelers and dispassionately announce, “Yeah, yeah, it’s big, it’s there, enjoy.” before you mosey on over to Shakespeare & Co and let them fight the army of globetrotters at the top of the mythical phallic pillar of French pride.

Now, to be fair, I was once one of them. I was seventeen and I wanted to do absofuckinglutely everything there was to do. Twice. I did allll the big stuff: Sacré Coeur, Notre Dame, Louvre, d’Orsay, Grand Palais, l’Opéra and the list goes on. By day three I had trigger finger, was partially blind and had a permanent cramp in my cheeks from smiling for the birdy. I even have a photo with a panhandler and his drugged pets. I thought they were so cute, “sleeping” under his blanket in a baby carriage, and I gave him a few coins for kibble. So naive, was I.

>more