Two serial killer dreams last night. The second one was infinitely more frightening, as I got to discover my whole family had been killed after I shot the killer in my old bedroom with my dad’s fifty-something year old rifle. The killer even set up a trap on the front door so that, when I opened it and ran out, it triggered this thing that dumped my family’s blood on my head. I ran from the house looking like Stephen King’s Carrie, howling at the top of my lungs. I knew that the authorities would think I did it since I was covered in their blood.

No more homicide manual for me before bedtime. I’m just finishing up the disorganized serial murderer profile.

Actually, the rifle might have been inspired by the Gendarmerie yesterday. As we were returning home from Sacré-Coeur and Montmartre, the Gendarmerie (that is, the French military police) were flanking the street as they walked up and down. One carried a huge rifle. I’ve seen American military in the airports with enormous rifles, but never on a public street. So, it was a wee bit impressive. (As my subconscious proved last night.)

Without further ado, I’ve uploaded the photos of Sacré-Coeur and Montmartre, especially for my pals who want to get their Amelie freak on. The funny thing at Sacré-Coeur was that, as we hiked up the stairs, I asked The Frenchman if we could take a short break so I could get a photo. I managed to walk straight to a place in the crowd by a bench where a friend of ours was sitting without even realizing it! I love when that happens. And I loved Montmartre except that it was absolutely crammed with people. The weather was unseasonably gorgeous and it was a Sunday afternoon. The Frenchman showed me where he used to live and his favorite plaza. I had never been to Montmartre before, strangely enough.

And this is what greeted us at the end of the day: