November 30th, 2005


It's been ten days? Not long enough.

Since Monday, Nov. 20, in no particular order I:
  1. saw the nautes pillar
  2. did a monkey dance
  3. saw a Roman archeological dig
  4. saw Notre Dame and decided it wasn't worth it to go in
  5. kissed a girl in Paris
  6. caught a shooting star with someone who had never seen one
  7. found a new favourite air carrier (four words: "green skirts, golden apples")
  8. was closely watched by the Illuminati
  9. had impure thoughts in a church
  10. realized I needed more work on my Latin
  11. realized I recalled more French than my 7th grade teacher would believe in a million years
  12. realized German, no matter how often I heard it, is simply impossible for me
  13. had really good chocolate (the jury is still out on whether I believe in really good chocolate)
  14. kissed a girl in the Vienna Christmas market
  15. saw more famous dead people (Falco!) than I had any right to
  16. lost three people in Vienna, and found two of them
  17. lost a bottle of tequila to pressure in the cargo hold, and soaked some poor sot's bag with it, I'm sure
  18. slept with three women and one other man . . . in one bed
  19. spent an hour and a half with a shower buddy struggling to remove gold body paint
  20. finally got between Mazi's legs
  21. lost all chance I had with a girl to a three year old
  22. had french fries that could only be described as "exquisite"
  23. saw signs for "Men with hats cross here", "Men with hats go down stairs here", and "Men with hats steal children here"
  24. had a crisis of conscience that would have been terribly funny from my persepective, but not so much from yours
  25. discovered that the sun does not shine in France, and especially does not shine at Charles De Gaulle (CDG) airport
  26. Became stranded at CDG on the way home and discovered the previous assertation is untrue, though we also discovered that CDG is designed after Charles De Gaulle's nose: large, unsightly, and ugly
  27. learned that a hat, properly worn, can move you to the front of any line
  28. proposed to a girl in Vienna
  29. found Europe to be exactly like the US, just with a few new languages and monopoly money
  30. discovered the French are much nicer when you're in a wheelchair, and customs are much simpler
  31. went fishing in shark-infested trashcans
  32. had a one hour layover turn into a 23 hour layover
  33. encountered the Great Mystery of the Missing Cheese Stick
  34. am now the proud owner of an Air France t-shirt
  35. managed to get my bags checked all the way through to Columbus, but not my travel partner's
  36. will never fly Air France, into CDG, or go to Paris ever again.
It's now almost nine AM, and I am not at work. There is a very good reason for this.

Walking With Fire is/was/has been the best festival I ever attended. I am not sure that the experience ever could be or ever will be beaten.

Pictures are forthcoming, as is a longer review.

For now, though, I'm just too tired.

Entries from this trip:
Entry 1 | Entry 2 | Entry 3 | Entry 4 | Entry 5 | Entry 6
A quick overview of the entire trip

The Cats in Socks Meditation

(assigned by m3ch at WWF upon viewing ceolnamara's socks)

Upon the sock stands a cat. He stands proudly, displaying his fancy, cat-decorated socks. The first sokc, on his front right foot, is blue. It is a deep shade of blue, the kind you see on the clearest winter afternoons, when the shones shines clearly and distinctly on the world.

The blue sock contains the representation of another cat, this one smiling happily, his tial kinked where you would expect a curl. Upon his right front paw, there is an orange sock, which stands out in contrast to his black fur and the blue field upon which he stands.

The orange sock contains yet another cat, this one young with mischeif in his eyes. He is spying on a red birt, and licking his lips in anticipation. His stubby tail has just come to rest after an excited flicker, and his muscles are tense. Upon his right front paw, which is gently lifted into the air, ready to swipe if the bird comes in range, is grey sock. It is worn through with a number of patches and repairs.

The grey sock contains a dainty kitten, sitting before a glass of milk. Upon her collar is a bow and a tiny bell that rings clearly when it contacts the dish. Her front right paw is curled around the small bowl, pulling it in closer. Because the milk is so cold, she has to wear a bright yellow sock over her paw.

The bright yellow sock contains a dashingly handsome cat. This cat wears a leather jacket and sunglasses, and is curled contentedly in the seat of a motercycle. One year is crooked from a scrap he got into as a kitten, and there's a scar on his chin from a fight he swears he won with a pit bull. On his front right paw, he wears a leather sock, black as night, that rests on the clutch.

The black leather sock contains an older white cat, her body worn down a bit by age, but still beautiful to the cat who wears her visiage on his sock. Below her picture is a heart, the word "Mom" is inscribed in flowing emboidery across it. She is wearing a long dress, but her stickings can still be glimpsed on each paw. One waps is crooked to support her chin, which rest upon the heart below. This paw is encased in a delicate red lace stocking with a beautiful criss-cross pattern.

The red sock with the criss-cross pattern contains a debonaire cat wearing a tuxedo. His whiskers are long and flowing, waxed into an up-turned mustache. He hsatnds with a tray in one hand and a towel over his other arm, and his eyes beg the question, "Will there be anything else?" Upon his right front paw there is an elegant white sock.

The elegant white sock contains an understated gray cat. Lightly emboridered and elegant, she is barely noticible, except that she is so marvelously formed that one would have to be dead not to feel an increase in their pulse as they followed her curves. She lays seuctively upon a couch, eathing mice as if they were grapes. She is a queen, and wears no socks or stockings.

Upon the first cat's front left stocking, however. . .