Best thing about Paris thus far? You can swear in front of small children.

But don't swear in front of senior citizens. The old people here are all cranky, apparently adept at languages, and, well, French.

Hole, Boss-one and I, who are joined at the hip with our one-and-a-half keys, were just strolling along this old viaduct converted into a garden pathway, along Av. Daumesnil near Bastille...for anyone who gives a crap about Paris locations. (B&G, I just uncomfortably cleared my throat and looked in your general direction.)

After passing a park bench, Boss-one says, "red shoes, seven o'clock." I look back over my shoulder, and sure enough: There's this guy wearing red addidas and blue jeans.

"Aw, fuck" I muttered after turning back around.

These two older ladies walking in front of us both stopped in their tracks, turned around, and shot me a look. They even stayed put, and watched us walk past. 'Gotta love the French.

You really outta see the room where the three of us are shacking up. I've got the air mattress, Boss-one has the futon (since he landed the place), and Hole, somehow the nominated bitch of our crew, has to sleep on this weird diagonal crib-looking thing. He even has to twist his body accordingly to fit, and even then his feet dangle off the end.

(Boss-one and I wonder if that's what's causing the inordinate snoring coming from the southeast corner of the room)

Then we have all our worldly possessions tossed haphazardly in the rest of the space. We're like a trio of Sudanese refugees.

I just got this email that reads, "No trip to Paris is complete without experiencing the Euro dance club." Really? I think I just threw up a little in my mouth. And what's the over/under on this girl ever having been to a Euro dance club? With bold declarations like that, the chances are slim.

Right now, we're not thrilled with our British roommate.

Here we are, squashed into this room after fleeing our war-torn village, literally stepping over backwards to accomodate, and he's already written an encyclopedia volume in little "notes."

The latest one was a strongly worded command not to turn on the heater in the bathroom. Really? You mean the one with the sign that says "Do not use, very dangerous"? You think so, doctor?

He must have found it on, but how it would've gotten that way is beyond us three. It's hanging up by the ceiling, out of the way, so there's no accidentally turning it on. So we're confused...and a little pissed now that he's shown what he thinks of our intelligence. I mean, at least start with an "Um, did any of you happen to turn on the heater with the 'Do not use' sign?" note, you know?

Newsflash: Not all Americans are George W. Bush, douchebag.

Oh, and that whole "seminar" thing, you know - the reason-for-being-here thing is going pretty well. Today we had a good session with the Paris bureau chief for TIME...good guy. 'Lots of practical, handy advice mixed in with stories to back it up.

Yesterday this husband and wife team talked with us - she writes for AP and he's a columnist with the Herald-Tribune. Our administrator prefaced their talk with an anecdote:

"You know, you can certainly be a foreign reporter and have a successful marriage. The funny story I like to tell is of this couple I know that was married for ten years without living in the same city. Then, finally, they were both assigned to New York City at the same time. He got an apartment on the East Side, while she got an apartment on the West Side. 'We need to ease into this,' he told me."

She wasn't kidding: To her that was a "successful marriage."

Only the day before, this former TIME writer turned Irish Times reporter, who's been all over the world, told us, "Journalists are generally horrible spouses. You drink too much [check], you smoke too much [check], you're never home [check], you're always thinking about work [check], you're not faithful [no check...but give me a few years]."

A student asks, "Are you married?"

"Separated."

Wow, sign me up...I can't wait.

The best part of being an awful dad? Swearing in front of small children.