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hobbled.
    Finally, she allowed me into my own room.
    Becca and Harold went for a walk, and now I’m sitting up in
my bed grumbling. And annoyed. And in pain. Becca is making out with Harold,
and the Pennies are missing, so Penny could very well be making out with Tommy.
I can’t believe they’re an item. How could he try to kiss me, and then hook up
with her right afterwards? See, that’s why relationships are scary. A
guy says he likes you and them, BAM! He likes someone else.
    And Pierre . . . well Abby spent the entire evening with
Pierre showcasing her fabulous booty in the hot springs. If reality TV has
taught me anything, it’s that they are right now rolling around together as I
write.
    Everyone has someone.
    And what do I have? A broken middle toe and burnt boobs.
    Tuesday, July 17, 3:30 P.M.
    It’s drizzly and cold. I’m sitting at a café, drinking café
au lait , miserable. This trip sucks. France is evil.
    And then things got worse:
    “Today we’re going on a hike!” Joanna exclaimed this
morning.
    I cannot go on a hike. Those with incapacitated toes barely walk,
never mind climb the Alps. Becca offered to stay and hang out with me, but I
insisted she go. She loves to hike, and I didn’t want to suck her into my
personal web of misery.
    So I hobbled over to a nearby boutique. I saw a pretty
purple dress in the window. I asked the salesgirl if I could try it on. She
said oui . It didn’t fit.
    She then yelled, “ Zut alors! You waste my time! Why
you are waste my time?”
    I hobbled out.
    Now I am alone. Sitting at a café. Eating a croissant and
brie.
    Tomorrow we leave for Nice, the last leg of our trip. I
can’t wait for this to be over. I want to go home. To my house. To my family.
To my dog.
    The waiter who keeps bringing me cheese is kind of cute.
    Kind of. Not really. But kind of.
    Maybe I should grab him by the collar, plant a wet one on
his lips and that would be that.
    I’ll guava-fie and smile pretty and see what happens.
    Two minutes later
    My guava is missing. I emptied my entire purse on the
table and I do not see it. It must be in my backpack. It must.
    5:00 P.M.
    It’s not. It’s gone.
    I must have left it on the train. Or in the Alps. Or in
Paris. It’s probably partying it up with my camera.
    I have looked everywhere. I wish Becca were here to help me,
but she’s too busy traipsing through the countryside with Harold.
    AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! France has not only stolen my camera, my
walking capability, my potential flings, and my happiness, but it has now
stolen my guava!
    Wednesday, July 18, 12:30 A.M.
    I have good news and I have bad news.
    First the good.
    We were in the restaurant of the chalet, about to have steak
frites . We were sitting at a long rectangular table. I sat next to Becca at
one end. Abby was sitting at the other. The seat next to her was empty. The
seat next to me was empty. And that’s when Pierre walked in.
    Who did he chose? Me. He chose me. He sat down right next to
me. Hah! Go me! And to think that last night I was ready to write off the
entire trip. Yet here I am back in the game, even without my guava.
    “Hi Pierre,” I said. “How are you?”
    “I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “I don’t understand you. Can
you ask me how I am in French?” That is what Pierre is supposed to do, after
all – encourage us to speak French.
    I picked up my fork, and twirled it in my fingers like a
baton. “I don’t know how to speak French.”
    He leaned in closer to me. I could smell the cologne on his
neck. “Repeat after me. Bonjour, Pierre. Comment ç a va?”
    “Bonjour Pierre,” I parroted. “Comment ç a va?”
    “Bien. Et toi?” he said.
    “Bien. Et toi?” I repeated.
    “No, now you have to answer me. I said, ‘Good and you?’ And
now you must tell me how you are.”
    “I’m good. Thank you, Pierre. I’m starving and looking
forward to dinner. What do you recommend I order? How do I say that?”
    “Ça va bien,” he said, sounding extra