It was soon apparent that in this melee we were not going to do any shopping. We could barely move without being swept up in the sea of capering people. I had visions of becoming separated from Brian and wondered frantically how we might find each other should that occur. Before such a frightful event could take place, we pushed our way through the enthusiastic partiers and reentered the smelly littered confines of the Metro. The car was alarmingly congested now, and I clung determinedly to Brian, trying not to notice as body parts only my husband should touch made contact with the other inhabitants. We swayed with the motion of the car, forcing me to lean into people I most decidedly did not wish to touch.

I breathed a thankful sigh of relief when we reached the stop for Notre Dame, instantly regretting it as stale smoke, body odor and urine stenches assaulted my overwhelmed olfactories. We stumbled out of the car hand in hand, ever fearful of being caught one in the train, one on the platform.

Finally, now we could buy our blasted souvenirs and be done with it. It was growing late in the afternoon, and we wanted plenty of time to rest in our room before our planned romantic dinner at the Eiffel Tower. We crossed the Seine, heading towards Notre dame, pausing to observe the incongruous sight of a sweat drenched Scot in full kilted regalia blowing valiantly away at his bagpipes. We recalled seeing plenty of gift shops earlier that week in this neighborhood and felt confident we could be in and out in a breeze and get back to our room. In and out of tacky shop after shop we trudged, finding nothing appealing. Perhaps if we hadn't been so hot, sweaty and irritated from our Metro misadventure, we wouldn't have been so hard to please. As it was though, I grew more cross by the minute, staring at displays of gaudy T shirts and scarves, ugly caps, key chains, lighters, shot glasses and other vastly overpriced accoutrements all of course oddly emblazoned with "Souvenier du Paris".

This day would be ruined, I reflected, if we kept this up much longer. My husband's lips were pressed tightly together; a sure sign of annoyance, and I found myself having unkind thoughts about the French, other tourists, and even my unknowing family back home, innocently awaiting their charming, unique and considerately selected gifts. I'd had enough. We agreed to forgo the shopping for now; after all there were still 2 countries on our itinerary, and head back to our room across the city.

This, we were soon to discover, was more easily said than done. Yet again we entered the Metro and sank wearily onto an iron bench to await the next car. When it pulled screeching into the station, I gave it a look of utter dismay. Just the thought of attempting to squeeze my body into the impossibly over-crowded car made my chest hurt. I could not breather at the mere idea. I dropped my head into my hands as tears forced their way past my clenched eyelids. "I can't do it. I can't get on that train," I uttered miserably to my husband. A sudden claustrophobia squeezed my lungs so that I was gasping for breath, lightheaded. Justly frustrated by my reluctance - no, my refusal to take the quickest and easiest mode of transport back to our hotel, my husband nonetheless patted my back encouragingly and waited for my panicked tears to subside. "It's OK," he said soothingly as though to a two year old. "We'll figure something else out." I nodded and rose from the bench, wiping my running nose on my arm, feeling quite like a two year old at this point.