Paris ain’t much of a town. -Babe Ruth

Oh, the allure of going to Paris, on the map seemingly so close to Switzerland, and "on the way" back to Spain all seems a bit under-analyzed at this moment.  My mom and I have spent the past THREE of our four days in Paris in the Hilton hotel at Paris Charles de Gaulle by the airport.  I almost don't even want to write this story, because looking at it now it seems as though so much here could be prevented.  

After a 9 hour train ride from Interlaken to Paris, we arrive at Gare du Norde (one of the busiest train stations in the world) at 5pm on a Friday.  Needless to say, it was a little busy.  I normally remain pretty calm and collected in crazy travel situations, and after asking 3 information desks for help (in Spanish because no one would speak to me in English) and standing in the longest line of all time to purchase a ticket to head to our hotel (almost 40 mins outside the city) with no success, I began to feel a bit frustrated.  So my mom and I decided it was best to grab a quick bite to eat in the train station, just so that we could take a moment refuel and recollect ourselves.  Who knows what I ate, a quiche of some sort; but my mom went for pizza (a strange choice for a French train station, no?).  It was a French looking pizza (whatever that means- I've been in France for 3 days), but it was.  We ate, and then tried again to purchase our tickets.  

With the help of a kind stranger, we managed to get our tickets and navigate our way to our train.  Now, at about 6pm in madness of the train station we got on the line to take us out of the city towards Charles de Gaulle.  With suitcases in hand, we hopped on quickly to squeeze in before the doors closed.  Sure enough, I hear a man's voice behind me say "pick pocket".  In this moment I look down and see a young girls hand in MY bag!!!  She quickly takes it out and  I yell back to my mom, "Mom, put your hands on your stuff!!"  In my moment of overwhelmed panic, knowing that this girl was inches from my passport and wallet, all I could think to yell was "YOU SHOULD WORK!!!"  Yes, I know it wasn't clever, wasn't in French, and honestly, she probably thought to herself, "I AM working".  In that moment I remember feeling so violated, so overwhelmed, and like I wanted to go home.  And in that moment, my mom and I got off at the next station just to re-group.  My mom's initial reaction was "Let's go to Spain!!"  Which I thought was cute that she felt more at home and safer in Spain than France; but I had just rode 9 hours to get to Paris and one little punk ass pick pocketer wasn't going to ruin that for me.  After calming down a bit, we decided to get back on the train and head to the hotel.  

Upon arrival at the Hilton (have I mentioned I like traveling with my mom?), we checked in to the room.  The front desk worker informed us that we had been upgraded to a "junior suite".  This we felt like was God's way of saying "sorry you had such a hard day, here rest your pretty heads in this luxurious space with awesome white robes and a view".  I mean, it's a lot to imagine God saying, but still, I could have swore I felt it was the modern day version of those verses in Ephesians chapter 1 about rich blessings.  Sure enough we check-in and the room is HUGE, for American standards let alone French ones.  

There my mom mentions that she isn't feeling very well and that her stomach has really began to act up a bit.  For the next THREE days, she is ill.  Oh that damn French pizza!!!  Because of the pick pocket incident on the metro, she feels extremely uncomfortable with me going into the city alone.  Fear isn't rational.  I stay in the hotel and eat at the airport for all of my days in Paris.  I just keep wondering what the workers at the two hotel restaurants (that were outside the terminal) think when they see me there for 2-3 meals a day.  Even more, I keep thinking, "Paris is overrated!"  

In my mind Paris is: a nice hotel room, a stomach flu, a pickpocket-punk-ass-girl, and LOTS of expensive airport food.  Bienvenue!