I just started reading Julia Child's My Life in France, and this clearly spells DANGER. With a capital "Duh."
I'm only on page 13, and I'm already wanting, craving, yearning to go to France and eat my way into a coma. Specifically, to return to Paris. Two days is not long enough to explore this beautiful city, especially when you have a jetlagged toddler in tow. (However, Ian did fall completely in love with the Eiffel Tower for the next six months of his life.) (True story: I have a photo of Ian sitting in his stroller in the Louvre museum, within spitting distance of the Mona Lisa. Is he gazing into the inscrutable face of La Giaconda? Is he noticing the swarm of Japanese tourists who are -- no lie -- videotaping the painting? No. He is fully absorbed in his giant board book of bulldozers and earthmovers.)
Did you see Julie & Julia ? Did you love it? (I pretty much did.) From what I've read so far, this book is way more fraught with peril. Don't read it if you're trying to: 1)slim down or 2) curb your travel cravings.
My problem is more the latter. Please send tickets to Paris or professional help.
(Send the help engraved on the newest model of a iRobot 530 Roomba Vacuuming Robot. You know, one of those nifty vacuuming gadgets that just works its way around your floor under its own power.)