Glorieta de la Transexual Sonia

People used to walk around unfamiliar cities without GPS-enabled smartphones. Picture a flock of tourists huddled around a poster-sized paper map that has been folded and refolded until the creases have frayed. They’re jabbing at the map and waving toward landmarks. They shield their eyes from the sun as they search in vain for street signs, arguing about whether the map is right side up or upside down. Ancient tools for ancient times. Today when we travel, we have much better tools. We’ve advanced. We huddle around a smartphone, not a paper map. True, we still jab and shield and search and argue, but at least we don’t have to fold the smartphone. Yet.

The Seething Streets of Europe

The Arc de Triomphe stands at the head of the Champs-Elysses, the Parisian avenue famed for its shopping venues. We took a metro to the avenue’s foot, Place de la Concorde. A convertible gray Ferrari zoomed past, testament to the wealth of the area’s clientele. I couldn’t pull out my phone in time to snap a picture, but I did get one of a subsequent Lamborghini for hire:

A missing letter from a protective eyewear shop tickled my sophomoric sense of humor:

Europe: The Final Countdown

In three weeks, we board a Embraer E175, which is apparently an airplane and not a coffee grinder, and fly to JFK. We’ll fill a few hours dining, lounging, and slouching across chairs designed for discomfort. Just before our nerves snap from ennui, we’ll file onto an Airbus A330-300, which is precisely what it sounds like, with 286 other travelers. Next stop? Gay Paree.

We’ve been planning this trip for over a year. None of us have ever been to Europe, and we’re hoping not to perpetuate the Ugly American stereotype. We’ve signed up for Babbel, bought and read shelves from Rick Steves, and ordered adapters from Apple for our phones. We’ve learned not to wear shorts in cathedrals or shirts with logos. My wife even ordered me some scarves, as if a ribbon snaked under my chin would prevent me from ordering a blank vine with poison for dinner. I told my French coworker that I’d be wearing a beret, and he snorted and said I’d be the only one. I guess I’ll have to resort to toting a baguette everywhere to blend in.