But we first had to get back to our hotel on the other side of the Seine, near the Eiffel Tower. And we could see the Tower from here, but like Rick Steves says in his Paris guidebook, it's like a mountain, you keep walking to it, but it never seems any closer. I ever so bravely bit my lip though and held back tears, soldiering on in spite of the agonies in my feet and ankles. After an interminable amount of time dragging our exhausted selves through the avenues of Paris, across the Seine, past lush green parks, enticing shop fronts and any number of gloriously blooming window boxes, we stumbled across another taxi stand. We couldn't be more than 6 or 7 blocks from the Hotel du Champ de Mar, but I was ecstatic at the thought of sinking into the back seat of a cab and cruising in comfort the rest of the way. We pushed a button (hmm, there wasn't one on the last one) and oh joyous day - a cab pulled up seconds later. We hastily clambered in before he could change his mind and I directed him to Rue Cler, s'il vous plait. This seemed to be an abominable idea to the driver, judging by that uniquely Parisian way of lifting the eyebrows and clearing the throat. Just to be sure I understood though, he haughtily pointed out in heavily accented English that "eet eez just over there!" brandishing his stubby finger crossly. "I know," I said calmly, "but I'm tired of walking!" and leaned back in my delightfully soft seat, arms crossed.

Throughout the suspiciously long and circuitous route our new friend took, he repeatedly cleared his throat, telling us in the international language of no uncertain terms that we were ridiculous, and a waste of his valuable time. Upon arriving at our hotel, I handed him the 40 francs he demanded (with no extra with which he could "gardez le monnai") and stepped out with all the poise and hauteur I could manage, given my agonizing feet. We retired grandly to our room, where I promptly soaked in the tub and gave thanks for the European shower nozzle that allows one to bathe while reclined in the tub.

Much refreshed and attired now in my new French fashions, I slid my feet into my dress sandals, only to discover they didn't fit. The swollen blobs protruding from my puffy ankles were too large to fit in my shoes! No matter; I was in tres chic clothing, and would not wear my hiking shoes, if I had to forcibly cram my reproving feet into the shoes. This I proceeded to do with not a little whimpering. I was just delighted to not be going to the Eiffel Tower. I couldn't countenance the thought of placing my freshly bathed, deodorized and perfumed body into a teeming mass of people on an elevator at the tower, and attempting to decipher another French menu under the watchful eye of another French waiter looking down his nose at me.

We paused at the reception desk as we left the hotel for Brian to inquire as to the correct way to obtain a cab. We went completely free of accoutrements - no bags, cameras or other dead giveaway items to shout "American Tourist". Armed with the knowledge of how to hail a cab, we headed out the three or four blocks to the nearest taxi stand. My feet throbbed with each step, painfully announcing their overstuffed status in their high heeled sandal, but that was OK. I had on Paris clothing, and at as size one/two I was nearly as slim as the Parisian girls. I was confident that this time, I could hail a cab.