I see London, I see France…

… no one saw my underpants.

No more names to add to my European Black Book after my London-Paris-Bologna trip, but I came back home with more numbers than a girl should obtain in a week and too many stories to transcribe.

London… oh the accents. I just can’t get enough. However, if you’re a dirtbag, your adorable tone of voice doesn’t make up for it. After searching for an adequate bar, my partner-in-crime for the week challenged me to approach the only attractive group of men in the room.

Challenge accepted.

I didn’t know it would result in a hotel party, missing the bus back home at 6 a.m and then proceeding to get lost for about three hours. These men were so incredibly forward that I was caught off-guard. I think one of them forgot that the things he was saying are not supposed to be said out loud. I don’t want to know that you’re going to be thinking about me later. And no, you can’t touch my ass. Eek. Moving on to Paris…

Oh Paris. Forget diamonds, this city is a girl’s best friend. It has wine, beautiful men, classy all-hours nightlife and, oh yeah, that thing called the Eiffel Tower. But it wasn’t an instant love affair, the City of Light had to lure me in. It all started with the cozy bookstore bar where we met a couple of Frenchmen who chatted us up all night and one drew pictures of us and deemed us quite the “vixens.”

I started to get a crush.

Then after walking around the city for hours we finally stumbled across the Eiffel Tower, twinkling as is disappeared into the foggy Parisian sky.

My heart melted.

 

 

We went out that night and played a game called “follow the group of hot guys to the bar.” Yes, I know that makes me a stalker. But we ended up at a great bar with fun bartenders.  A couple guys sitting next to us ended up being from Florence, which sparked up conversation and a couple rounds of shots. And I would like to throw in that one said I dressed as though I was Italian (compliment accepted). We eventually all moved to another bar down the street, with men galore. These French gentlemen are charming and effortlessly handsome. I think I fell in love five times. Let’s just say that when I was recalling the night’s festivities, I just needed to pull out the small slips of paper from my purse with Paris phone numbers.

Parigi, I’ll be back for ya’!

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