..for Canadians with heatstroke envy.

There were more than a handful of moments during the past 2 weeks for which I simply had no words.. in part because some of those words happened to be French.

Lo and behold, there was another apricot tart waiting for me to completely sourface my way through it.

Science has done a lot of things in my time, but it’s failed to make Europeans any taller.

The Mona Lisa must have so many Facebook friends that it wipes the smile off her face every night.

I had a miniscule fraction of optimism that soon wormed its way into a minor conflagration of misinformation, uncertainty, and of course, a lot more walking.

The air was thick with the scent of old French men – you know, a bit of cigarette ash layered with cognac. It wasn’t all that bad, to be honest.

Some days you have to ask yourself, is the world with me or against me? Today the answer was yes.

Sorry mates, but after marveling over the gilded opulence of English royalty for 5 days, your King Leopold doesn’t really do that much for me.

Everything in American history starts with Europe, and these are my roots, no matter from wherever the hell the parts of me actually came.