It was all starting to look horribly familiar, as I sat in Boston waiting for my Paris plane. The time crept up to our departure time, then past it, while heavy rain pounded the terminal windows, and no announcment was made. Our inbound plane from San Francisco had been held in a holding pattern for half an hour before landing, also because of the storm. But finally, at around 6.45 p.m., we started to board. The seats weren't as comfortable as I've had in international business class in the past, but apparently American has consolidated to just two classes on international flights now, so I was actually in what they call Premier Class. At least the cabin was almost half empty, so I was able to find a seat with nobody sitting either next to me, behind me, or in front of me, and with oodles of leg room.

It was a relatively short six hours flight, and the long, excellent, multi-course meal didn't leave you much time for sleep. Besides, I had to wait for my movie to finish: "Under the Tuscan Sun", a contrived yet moving romantic melodrama about a divorced San Franciscan woman who impulsively buys a villa in Tuscany. I had my usual intervals of tears on the plane: a couple of times almost bawling. What is it about watching movies on the plane?

I settled back in my seat, put on an eye mask and ear plugs, loaded myself with drugs, and past out for a fitful couple of hours, until I heard the morning bustle of breakfast, and a faint dawn began to be visible through the windows. After landing, we disembarked onto the tarmac on a rather cold Parisian morning, to be sheparded to the arrivals building in buses, where a long period of chaos ensued as people from multiple buses tried to squeeze through a single door, then figure out for themselves which of the multiple escalators and stairs led to passport control. But finally, I got through all that with the help of the British passport I still retain, and I was met by my friend Jean-Marc right outside the customs control. We carried my four heavy bags downstairs to Jean-Marc's car, and soon we were driving into Paris under a dreary sky.

Despite having had very little sleep, I didn't feel too bad. I devoured two warm croissants with butter for breakfast, along with a protein shake which I manufactured using my travel blender. Then the jet-lag started to hit, and I retired to bed (Jean-Marc kindly let me use his bedroom) for a good long rest.

When Jean-Marc returned several hours later, the dreary midday had been transformed into a warm and sunny late afternoon. After rearranging my bags, and a strong cup of coffee, we took the subway to the Hotel de Ville and walked past Notre Dame, then along the Seine, finally to the Marais, Paris' gay-friendly neighborhood - probably my favorite gay neighborhood anywhere. It's very mixed; plenty of pretty boys - but it doesn't feel at all like a ghetto; and lots of nice cafes and restaurants. We sat outside on the sidewalk at a gay bar, and had mojittos just like we did last time I was in Paris, with Jean-Marc and Brett.

After an excellent dinner at a Corsican restaurant nearby, we walked to a gay tea-dance party at a club right across the street from the Louvre. At first, I felt I had enough energy to dance, but we'd only been dancing ten minutes or so before I realized how tired I was. After all, the last bed I'd slept in was in San Francisco. So I'm afraid I disappointed Jean-Marc by begging for us to go home as early as ten-thirty. So by eleven, I was in bed again, and I was able to sleep maybe six hours until now, five thirty in the morning. Later this morning we'll return to Charles de Gaulle to pick up my beloved Ben. Poor guy, he was much worried about arriving in Paris, knowing nobody, not speaking French, and had required multiple reassurances that we'd easily find him at the airport. Once we rescue him, we'll likely return here so that Ben can have a nap, and tonight, at 8 p.m., we'll board the overnight train to Venice.