Armed with torn-out pages from Rick Steve's Europe through the Back Door, an intense paranoia about speaking French, and a list of all the cybercafes in Paris, Madrid, and London, I set off for Europe on August 14, 2001. Though intending to sleep on the flights over, I let myself be lured by the brilliant airline cinema, featuring gems like Antitrust and Save the Last Dance. Thus, delirium had set in by the time I got to Paris, 20 hours later.

Speaking French is easy. As long as you don't have to listen. Just look in the pocket dictionary for the question you want to ask, ask it, and then hope the questionee nods or shakes her head. You can ignore the long stream of words coming out of her mouth; they're probably just qualifiers. Berlitz in hand; I braved the streets of the city of love (1).

Drea would be meeting me in Venice, so my first-ever European travel days were spent honing my foreign city skills alone. Wandered the Louvre. Saw some famous (2) stuff (3). Went on an English-speaking bike tour (4) with a droll fratboy guide who, after being ignored by some passing Italian women, said, "See, guys, I just wanted you to see that disapproving European look. Get used to it." Chatted in hybrid Spanish/Portuguese with some Brazilians at a café who were having as much difficulty as I was conversing with the impatient but cute gay waiter. Looked at many horses' butts (5).

On the third night, I boarded a couchette bound for Italy. Spoke in messy French and fourth-grade English with my cabin companions, a wonderful couple from Tours. We had a grammar lesson. They taught me that the French don't usually say "you're welcome," unlike most other cultures, which have formal phrases like "prego" and "de nada." (While you could say "de rien," nobody really does. Maybe that's why foreigners think the French are rude.)

Next: On to venice . . .