A bus seemed to be the next best way to go. Yes, it may be crowded, but it would at least be above ground and open air. Our first day in Paris we had attempted unsuccessfully to navigate the bus system to do some sightseeing, but surely by now, we reasoned, after five days in this city we could figure it out. Besides, our one week Metro Pass was valid on busses, so it wouldn't cost us any of our carefully budgeted francs.

Our second bus attempt proved to be as futile as our first - worse, actually. We not only boarded the wrong bus, but it was several blocks before we realized we were going in the wrong direction. At the next stop we hastily left the bus, consulted our map, and began walking. Lugging our daypacks, camera, extra film, camcorder and my haul from Tati on painfully aching feet, we soon realized that the 4 or so miles was much too far to walk. We'd been on our feet since breakfast, on legs already sore and feet already blistered from the preceding two weeks of hard travel. After a brief discussion of finances, we agreed to go ahead and take a cab. We shambled a few more blocks waiting for one to appear. When it did, Brian's lackadaisical attempt at signaling it evidently wasn't enough to catch the driver's attention, for he continued down the street. After several more such attempts and upon spying a taxi stand, it occurred to us that perhaps they could only stop at designated locations. Satisfied that this was the case, we waited at the stand as cab after cab drove by, by now, we were convinced, resolutely ignoring us. We remained there for some time before I stomped off in total frustration, much to the detriment of my throbbing ankles.

We raged at the rudeness of the drivers for a while as we plodded along together. Periodically we'd see a cab and one of us would take a stab at it, but to no avail. As we continued step after laborious step, with no eye for the sights of the city, no thought for anything but our painful feet and legs, I grew increasingly incensed. Fighting the little voice in my head that persisted in repeating that it was my own fault for being such a baby about the metro, I began to blame Brian. It was his fault for not being able to hail a cab. If he really loved me he would care that each step I took shot knives of pain through my ankles. That's right, he would hail a cab through any means necessary, even if that meant jumping out in front of one, if he truly loved me! But nope, he just trudged along beside me in silence. I finally burst out and placed all the blame on him for this horrid walk and took off ahead of him as fast as my swollen feet could carry me. Tears streaking my face, my head down, I didn't look back as I crossed street after street , defiantly hoping he'd lose sight of me, and not catch up. Now that would serve him right, I told myself. I felt the eyes of other pedestrians and the sophisticated Parisians dining at the sidewalk cafes, staring curiously at the blonde American sniffling and limping speedily along.

My poor long-suffering husband finally caught up with me, at what cost to his oozing blisters, I'd rather not know, and we made up. No longer mad at him, I directed my anger to the French cab drivers. "It's because we're American," we concluded. "Ungrateful snobbish wretches want nothing to do with us lowlife Americans," we railed. Well, that's quite all right, we decided. We just won't go to their precious Eiffel Tower! We lamented together in this manner for blocks, pausing to rest our feet now and then. We agreed that the city was smelly, the inhabitants insufferably rude and condescending, and the menus entirely too difficult to decipher. Fine then, we'll just go to… horror of horrors; an American restaurant - the Hard Rock Café! So there, Paris!