After a night of hate-sleep (the result of a night train, where you have fitful naps and a kinked neck) and hate-food (usually of the orange variety: cheetos and fanta, for example), we arrived in Paris. After way too many hours and train stations (three in four hours), I was able to finalize my travel plans for Dublin the next day, and we spent the afternoon at Louis XIV's gay fantasia, Versailles (1).

Took some more (2) contraband (3) photos (4) inside the royal chamber (5) , and (6) strolled (7) the (8) gardens (9). Yeah, I (10) could live there.

Saw a man talking on his cell phone while peeing on a streetcorner.

That afternoon I went to a laundromat so that I would not nostrilly offend the people of Ireland, with whom I wanted to make a good impression the next day. Put the clothes in the machine. Deposited some francs in the control box. Pushed a detergent button. Prayed that my french was good enough that I hadn't just pushed the bleach button. The clothes survived. Early the next morning (to the chagrin of our hostel-room companions), my alarm went off and I bid adieu to Drea, as I set off for the land of the little people.

Next: Dublin . . .