Bill Bryson, you slay me!

For those unlucky souls out there who don't already know, there is this author, Bill Bryson. He writes books that fall in the 'travel' category. I can't quite recall how I stumbled upon the first book of his that I was lucky enough to read (I'm A Stranger Here Myself) but I did, and boy howdy, I am one happy girl for it! He is hilarious, sarcastic, and can alternately be nostalgic, sweet and a sarcastic straightforward speaker. You should all read him, it is worth your time. Just to give you a taste, here is a part that is in 'Neither Here Nor There' about his recreation of a youthful tour of Europe that he took as a middle aged man. When he originally did the tour he was joined by Steve Katz and that guy just didn't seem very pleasant. While Bill was in Paris for this go round he recounted an incident that occurred those many years ago. This one had me laughing out loud, tears streaming down my cheeks, mostly from the 'tone of voice' that he uses. Enjoy!

"Katz was in a tetchy frame of mind throughout most of our stay in Paris. He was convinced everything was out to get him. On the morning of our second day, we were strolling down the Champs-Elysees when a bird shit on his head. "Did you know," I asked a block or 2 later, "that a bird's shit on your head?"

Instinctively, Katz put a hand to his head, looked at it in horror, and with only a mumbled "Wait here", walked with ramrod stiffness in the direction of our hotel. When he reappeared twenty minutes later, he smelled overpoweringly of Brut aftershave and his hair was plastered down like a third-rate Spanish gigilo's, but he appeared to have regained his composure. "I'm ready now," he announced.

Almost immediately another bird shit on his head. Only this time it really shit. I don't want to get too graphic, in case you're snacking or anything, but if you can imagine a pot of yogurt upended onto his scalp, I think you'll get the picture. It was running down the sides of his head and everything. "Gosh, Steve, that was one sick bird," I observed helpfully.

Katz was literally speechless. Without a word he turned and walked stiffly back to the hotel, ignoring the turning heads of passerby. He was gone for nearly an hour. When at last he returned, he was wearing a poncho with the hood up. "Just don't say a word," he warned me and strode past. He never really warmed to Paris after that."

I still giggle when I read this. I tried to read it out loud to my mom once, could barely breathe for laughing so hard because I knew what was coming. Great stuff!