Au Revoir Paris

Although I'm so sad to see this beautiful city go, I say goodbye with bittersweet breath. After a delightful last day of Sacre Coeur, catacombs, faire de magasins and one last crepe avec jambon, oignons, fromage, pomme de terre et salade, we headed toward the train station. That's where it all went bad. Running all the way across Paris to get that delectable crepe, pushed the time limit and left Rebbie, Jordyn and me running through the Gare du Nord to pick up our luggage and run madly around the terminal looking for our train. It was at Passport control that I realized I didn't have just that.

My Passport.

It was in the bag which my lovely roommate Lauren had so kindly picked up for me because we were late. I frantically tried to tell my friends where my passport could be in the bag as they were going through border patrol and onto the train which was holding my bag where my passport was nestled safely between my well-worn keds and fake Juicy Couture perfume. Mind you, our train is supposed to leave in mere minutes. As my friends tore through my dirty socks and cardigans, I sat in limbo between customs and passport control with tears running down my American face which chocked up my few French words about how I need to go to England. During this whole mess I'm trying not to look at my watch as much as possible but I can't help but notice that my train is leaving very, very soon (forgive the lack of particulars, my watch doesn't have numbers on its face) and I am still an American who needs to go to England but is stuck in France.

Just as I'm imagining myself going back to the hotel we just checked out of, with my metro card that just expired and find the American Embassy where I can wait in line for a week and get a new passport; a few security personnel approach me and start asking me all these questions in French, English and probably a little Spanish, with which all I could reply with was "J'ai perdu mon passport et j'ai besoin d'aller au l'Angleterre!" Finally, one of them asks me my name and I respond with Je m'appelle Alexandra Thomas (thanks Ann!) and he hands me the most beautiful little blue book I've ever seen: my PASSPORT! Now with tears of joy I run like Pocahontas when she dances with the colors of the wind through security and relax. A little bit like my friend Anna.

Apart from the stress at the end there, there were definitely some fabulous times to be had in the city of love.

A little photo session on the top of the Eiffel Tower at dusk

As beautiful as that was, I don't think it topped the absolutely divinely inspired Greek crepe (I know right?) we had on La Rue Mouffetard. TOO good. This is the one that almost got me stranded in France.

As you can see by my face it was totally worth it.

Paris Holds The Key To My Heart!

Bonjour mes amis!

I thought that I might do my whole blog en Francais, and then I remembered that thanks to 5 years of French all I know how to say is that I like ice cream and that I'm 14 years old.

So that will come in handy if I meet a pedophile.

Despite my limited language skills, I am tres excite! (Use your decoding skills to decipher that). I can't wait to go stay in a hotel where I don't have to run madly down the hall to find a very dirty community bathroom that I share with an interesting cocktail of European youth.

Or have the assurance that I won't be fed sausage, ham, baked beans, soup and toast for breakfast.

But the best thing about the delicieux food, and the beautiful city filled with beautiful people is that they all come with the Euro! This blessed form of currency doesn't make the dollar look quite as ridiculous as the pound does and maybe I'll feel like my country has more to back up my little George Washington than Monopoly money.

Coming Of Age In London

Seeing as my dear friend Jordyn is about to turn twenty and leave the safety of her teen years to enter into true adulthood, I have been thinking a lot about the future. And I don't really like it. It scares me to be as old as I am. I don't like that I can remember things that were ten years ago, and I don't like that kids who I baby-sat are getting their licenses, but I especially don't like that in a few months' time I will no longer be a teenager and I'll end up being one of those people that tell you that they were once your age not too long ago, and then the recipient of the lecture just rolls their eyes as I fix my dentures and pull up my panty hose.

But instead of lamenting my fear of growing up, I decided to take affirmative action with where my life is headed, so I'm devoting this post to a list of things I'd like to do before I'd die.

Please note that this list is provisional, and subject to change.

1. Be in a Britney Spears music video. (I know everyone says she's past her glory, but the classics never die)

2. Raise a lion cub (I might settle with just petting one, after I thought about how big lion poop probably is) so I can have a "Christian the lion" experience. If you haven't seen this on youtube, I highly recommend it. It changed my life.

3. Make a fat-free croissant and fat-free bacon. Or just live long enough to see it done.

4. Find evidence of a mysterious phenomenon (i.e. Bigfoot, Lochness monster, UFO etc.) and be published in the National Enquirer.

5. Eat at Beto's (your finest 24 hr. burrito supplier) and not regret it. Just once!

6. Make an ice sculpture like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.

7. Become cultured enough that I no longer am entertained by low-budget and low IQ reality TV shows. They get me every time.

8. Come to be unashamed that I really love baked beans, carrot cake and corn bread.

9. Perfect the Angelina Jolie Sexy Scowl.

10. Yield more raw power than Oprah herself.

I know those are some pretty lofty goals, but at least I have 6 months before I really have to start thinking about them.

I wish I could say the same for Jordyn.

My Claim To Fame

I know guys. I know. You're all insanely jealous of me right now, right? For all of those who, for some reason, can't tell; this is a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio. You see the pink blur? He is two blurs to the left from that. Beautiful.

Ok, in my defense there were adoring fans all around and since I was clearly the muscles of the situation I was the one hoisting the little girl on top of my shoulders. Thus the horrible picture.

But who else can say they have an unrecognizable picture of the back of some semi-washed up teen heartthrob's head?

Yeah, I'm pretty lucky.

I really did get to see him though, and it was quite grand. Right when I looked into his blue eyes I knew that even though I was squished into the arm pit of some full grown man who kept yelling "Leo" at the top of his lungs approximately every seven seconds (he must have been pretty close to Leonardo because he was comfortable enough to call him Leo), Leonardo saw me and knew that we would be fast friends. I am expecting a call anytime soon and he'll invite me to drink cocoa with Gisele and him.

I wonder what I'll wear...

Remember, Remember The Fifth Of November

Can I just start out this post with a few kudos to our new President elect? Just in case Barack stumbles across my blog in his spare time I'd like to let him know he's done fine. This election has been filled with almost every emotion available to humans; on both sides (even though Cindy McCain's face is not capable of anything but that smile-like grimace). I know my political experience is nothing, seeing as I've only known Bushes and Clintons in the White House, but this election was pretty exciting. Apart from re-defining the lines of race and gender, the election had some pretty impressive merchandise.

My favorite is this Obama-ka.

Not only is this a great day for America, but it is a great day for the world. Because it is the day David B Thomas was born.

My dad.

Whether it's helping me do my Beaver County report in roughly the time it took to make my cinnamon toast before the bus came, because I had neglected to tell him anything about the report until an hour before it was due. And it still turned out awesome. Fully equipped with a pin-the-tail-on-the-beaver game and partly factual information from the one and only brochure Beaver County has.

Or driving me all the way back down the canyon to get a coat from grandma's house when my seventh grade vanity prohibited me from wearing his oversized olive green sweater and I had forgotten my own coat. Even though he was so mad at me he wouldn't speak the whole way down, we still made up over the obligatory, raspberry-filled powdered donuts from the gas station.

Or when he sacrificed the lawn, and the wood floors, and the carpets, and the garage door, and almost everything else below knee level in the house all just to give me what I wanted even more than a little sister: a puppy. When I made myself a collar and a tail and pretended to be a dog myself, he didn't see it as creepy like everyone else, but he saw it as an endearing cry for the dog I so sorely needed.

I know it's hard for my dad to be the only sane one in the midst of three very different girls, and a lot of times what we mean gets lost in what we say, but the best way to say I love you, is by not saying anything at all.

When I ran the jeep into a car in our driveway on New Year's Eve and instead of yelling at me you just laughed and helped me out of the driveway so I could go to my party.

That told me you love me.

When I hit my middle school crisis, and was positive no one understood what it meant to be a 13 year old at Farrer Middle School, you listened to all my woes, and even made a packet of all my talents, complete with pictures and diagrams, when I didn't think I was good at anything (which I still have today).

That told me you love me.

Especially when I'm five thousand miles away and I'm too busy having the time of my life, and get stressed about all the little things I was supposed to do before I left (like planning a return ticket for the right day) and you swoop in on your white horse and take care of everything.

That told me you love me.

Here's to another amazing year with an amazing dad.