MOM: And how are your other friends?

ME: Oh, my old friend Scott added me on Facebook. I haven’t heard from him in years. 

DAD: Who?

ME: My college roommate. You know him as Scott-Ernie-Scott.

DAD: Oh right.  Why did we call him that, again?

ME: Because his real name is Ernie. We were in an English class and the teacher said ‘I’m going to read your names off the roll sheet, but let me know what you’d like to be called.’ And Ernie turned to me and said ‘I never liked my name.’ And I said ‘Maybe you should ask to be called Scott.’ And the teacher read Ernie’s name, and Ernie said ‘Here, but I’d like to be called Scott.’ And the teacher gave him a funny look, but referred to him as Scott for the rest of the year. And the name stuck, and we always called him Scott.  And apparently he still goes by the name twenty years later because his name is Scott on Facebook.

DAD: Hmm.

ME: What?

DAD: Doesn’t he realize the importance of being Ernest?

When did half of my vacation budget go into buying souvenirs? I had a list so long that I don’t even think I know that many people.  I think I just wanted to be handing out “Je T’aime Paris” shirts to anyone that wanted one, especially people who asked me for spare change on the street.

I was determined not to get a bunch of junky, touristy gifts this time.  Paris is a noble city with a long, grand history.  Surely a souvenir from Paris merits a little more thought, requiring the purchase of something old, cultured, and sophisticated.

Yeah, but instead I wound up with a bunch of miniature glass Eiffel Towers filled with cognac.

Do you realize that the Eiffel Tower was only built in 1889?  Given that much of the city boasts monuments from centuries ago, the Eiffel Tower is basically the architectural equivalent of Miley Cyrus.

Naturally, I went a little more high end for my boss.  I bought a small bottle of champagne from the Epernay region of France.  And, like most of my work-related projects, it fell apart--exploding in my suitcase on the way home.  I considered airing out and washing all my champagne-drenched clothes, but now I’m thinking that I’ll just wear them: I’ve always liked vintage clothes.

Yes, my sense of humor is fairly dormant at the moment. What do you expect? I was with a bunch of French people for two weeks.

My friends emailed me a few snarky comments when I posted my Lonely Planet guide to Paris on GoodReads.com as my current book of choice, and doing so several weeks before my trip. But the fact is, I was reading it.  I didn’t expect to memorize all of it or have streets and restaurants trip off my tongue once I had arrived.  But it comforted me, to know that as the city spilled out in front of me, I could always locate myself on a map, find a cafe, find a metro station.

I’m a definite believer that it doesn’t make sense to travel as a slave to your guidebook.  It should be a collection of friendly suggestions, not a pint-sized tyrant.  But Paris--with its windy streets, complex conversations that so far exceed my college language courses that it’s not even funny, and its almost unfathomable number of places to eat and drink--threatens to slip by you entirely if you don’t try to put your arms around it and hold some of it to you. 

The fact is, I’ve ignored most of the guidebook. The best travel suggestion came from my friend Rosemary, who recommended the Doormouse in the Teapot (I’m not going to bother to remember the real, French name right now)--a cafe decorated with many images from Alice in Wonderland, and which serves a hot chocolate so intense and pure that it’s like Willy Wonka pouring a river down your throat.  That was better than anything in the book so far.  But I am still very attached to the idea that, whenever I want, I can find out the top places to see and do in the various districts, and what bars charge and how to tip and how to greet people.

I keep thinking it would be nice to write a similar guidebook for myself.  Haven’t we let months slip by without doing the top five things in each day, or even week?  What should you not miss in May, 2008?  What is the proper way to say “Hello,” “How are you,” “I like you” at various points and stages and locations?  What’s five star, four star, three star where you live, where you move around from day to day?  What should you make sure not to miss, because if you do, you’re not really experiencing what you’re supposed to experience--taking the trip you’re supposed to take?

What did you do this weekend?
Nothing. That is, until I checked my personal guidebook.  Then I went out and didn’t come back until five a.m.

My hands fairly itch to start such a project, until I remember that it would be pointless to write that guidebook with that degree of specificity: I’m the only traveler who could possibly use it.

There will be even fewer words than usual on these pages while I spend a few days in London and then a week and a half in Paris, where I will be hoping with all my might what every American hopes for in such circumstances: please, please let there be someone who speaks English.