parisian hangover

I feel like I've been run over by a truck, or, more likely, a pair of hostile, vengeful trucks. Mr. F and I went to Paris (AH!!!!) over the weekend, leaving Thursday afternoon and returning with the approaching sun on Sunday morning.

I'm still tired.

I have never, ever, EVER been one of those people who enjoys late nights.  In college, rather than pulling an all-niter  for a paper, I would go to bed at eleven and wake up at four in the morning.  No joke.  The number of papers written at o'dark thirty would astound the common masses. So, driving through the night and climbing into bed at seven just seems like cruel and unusual punishment for going on holiday.

There are so many things I want to say about our trip, but really don't know where to begin.  My distraction is due in large part to my soar throat, cough (dang you o'dark thirty!!!) and a bedroom the mess of which Oscar the Grouch would not even claim.

Rather than regale you with stories, which aren't exactly formulating coherently at the moment, I'm going to share some of my favorite photos.  Stories will come, I swear.

 

 

Happy Labor Day!