From the Journal ob Baxter


Paris Log, Carousel Day
Jardin des Plantes, The Dodo Manège
Emotional Status: Awestruck

Today I saw a panda.
Not a real one. A wooden one. But also a ghost ob history, apparently. Fish said it was extinct, and I said, “No it’s not, pandas still exist,” and he got that very serious look he does when he thinks you’be missed the metaphor. Then he said, “Emotionally extinct, Baxter. Spiritually endangered.” So, I picked it.

The Dodo Manège isn’t like the merry-go-rounds we’re used to. No painted ponies or frilly saddles. This one is quiet, almost reberent, and weird in the best way. Everything on it used to be real, long ago, but now it’s just remembered in carbed wood and tiny giggles from the kids brabe enuff to ride a prehistoric horned sea turtle – Peter and Jenni were!

It feels like time stopped here. Like someone whispered to the forgotten beasts, “Come back for a bit. Let the little ones know you existed.” And somehow, they did.

I held onto my boba tightly, trying not to spill it while we spun in slow circles fru the timeline ob vanished creatures. Teddy sat beside me, paws up like he was dribing. He always acts braber when there’s an audience.

Fish took about ten thousand pictures. Barry arribed halfway fru and just stood there smiling at the whole thing, arms folded like he was proud the past still had a place. Dougie tried to interbiew the dodo. Reuben clung to the prehistoric giraffe’s neck like it might lurch into the air and blast off into memory-space.

It made me fink:
What if we all go away someday too?
Maybe someone will build a carousel of us.
Or maybe we’ll just be stories.
Or crepe crumbs.
Or blurry polaroids wiff scribbled notes.

I’m OK wiff that.
But I hope the ride keeps going.

—Baxter xoxo

Extinction Avoidance Specialist
Currently sticky from bubble tea
Teddy rating: “10/10 would ride again”

Notre-Dame

Postcard Home – From Reuben
Notre-Dame de Paris, July 30

Today’s excursion to the iconic Notre-Dame was meant to be a quiet, reflectibe one. We eben whispered as we entered, craning our necks to take in the soaring ceilings, the golden chandeliers, and the soft filtered light fru rose windows that made eberyfing feel gentle and timeless.

And then… Dougie spotted the baptismal font.

To be fair, it does look like a fancy, ceremonial birdbath. And Dougie, in his infinite enthusiasms and qwestionable judgment, leapt onto the rim and struck what can only be described as a jazz-pirouette-flamingo pose and started dancing, right there above the sacred waters.

Someone gasped. A child applauded. The tourists snapped photos.

And then a very solemn man wiff a badge and deeply furrowed brow asked us, in seberal languages, to please bacate the premises immediately.

Dougie wabed to the crowd as we shuffled out. “Tell them it was modern interpretib dance!” he shouted. Baxter pulled his hood up. Fish tried to claim he didn’t know us. Barry muttered, “I told him not to climb anyfing reflectibe.”

So we’re adding “incident at Notre-Dame” to our list ob Paris memories — somewhere between “cheese tasting at midnight” and “nearly getting stuck in a baguette vending machine.”

We regret eberyfing. But also, kind of noffing. Fankfully Fish got a foto to capture the memory.

— Reuben
Club Scribe, Dougie Chaperone (reluctant), Collector of Banned Location Lists

The Clock

Today we bisited the magnificent Musée d’Orsay — or as Dougie insisted on calling it, “The Big Art Clock House.” We’d heard whispers in the crepe line that the top floor held a clock so grand, so iconic, it practically insisted on being admired.

And it was! Absolutely worff the winding stairs and Dougie’s distracting insistence that the elebator “smelled funny”.

When we reached the giant clock window, we realized somefing tragic: none ob us were tall enuff to actually see the famous biew ob Paris fru the glass! There we were, the whole sparkling city laid out behind that beautiful round frame, and we could barely see past the lower edge.

But we are resourceful.

We did what any sensible trabelers would do — took turns climbing on each other’s shoulders. First Barry lifted Fish (which lasted approximately six seconds before wobbling commenced). Then I hoisted Dougie up, and he gasped so dramatically I thought he saw the Eiffel Tower doing a cartwheel. Turns out he just spotted “some real nice rooftops.”

Ebentually we got the stacking just right: Dougie on my shoulders, both ob us swaying like baguettes in the breeze, while Baxter steadied us heroically from the side. It was wobbly. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

And the biew?

It was breafftaking. Rooftops like frosted cakes, the Seine glinting, the whole city humming quietly beneaff us. We didn’t say much — just looked, and let the clock tick quietly behind us.
I fink we were all aware that the moment, like the museum, like the flaky croissant crumbs stuck in Dougie’s fur — was fleeting and perfect.

— Reuben.  xoxo

The Gathering


Excerpt from Reuben’s Field Notes:

We assembled at the Norff Lawn under clear Paris skies — an ideal location for the weekly gathering ob The Secret Order ob the Nocturnal Water Buffalo, though admittedly not ideal for seating arrangements. The wind kept lifting the tablecloth, and Dougie declared (loudly) that the banner was crooked. He climbed on my shoulders twice to fix it, then knocked over Barry’s juice. No one seemed particularly surprised.

Fish called the meeting to order at exactly 9:57am, three minutes ahead ob schedule. He wore a small tie and carried a clipboard, naturally. I was still buttering my crepe. Teddy arrived with a stuffed satchel and refused to explain what was in it. Baxter quietly tucked a strawberry under his napkin for later. Barry brought his little bear (Batman), who apparently needed a “French cultural experience.”

We discussed tunnel access, pastry strategy, and Fish’s latest idea: a cheese rating system based on creaminess and cryptic code names. There was some debate, mostly from Dougie, who wants all cheeses to have a scent rating instead. That discussion got loud.

As the Eiffel Tower rose quietly behind us, I realized this may not be how most secret societies operate. There were no ominous robes, no strange chants, just a group ob rats trying not to spill jam while navigating complex crepe logistics. But it felt right. It felt like home.

— Reuben

P.S. I suspect Fish is planning something bigger. He keeps circling dates on the tiny map. I’ll keep watching. Someone has to.

 

Pamcake Breakfast – French Edition

Journal Entry — Filed by Fish, Grand Syrup Steward ob Chapter Elebenty

Today was not just any day…
Today was history.

The first Internashunal meeting ob the Secret Order ob the Nocturnal Water Buffalos (Chapter Elebenty) was held right here in Paris, France — under the watchful eye ob the Eiffel Tower herself!

Now, in case you were wondering, we did originally plan to do the usual Pamcake Breakfast. But then I, Fish (founder, cheese cartographer, and Minister ob Forks), realized something berry important: France doesn’t do pamcakes the way we do. No, no. In France, they do crepes. So in the spirit ob cultural respect (and because crepes are thin, stackable joy circles), we changed the menu.

Let me tell you, the table was stacked HIGH wiff crepes. There was whipped cream, strawberries, and a mysterious filling labeled only as “le surprise” (Barry took a bite and immediately whispered “I fink it was cheese, but fancy.”)

It was a beautiful sunny day on the Norff Lawn. Birds chirped. Tourists stared. A dog tried to sign up but was gently turned away because he drooled on the signup sheet. Still, good bibes all around.

Reuben brought tiny paper hats for everyone (eben Dougie), and Barry made a sign using his best handwriting. He was so proud he didn’t even mind that “pamcake” had to be scratched out mid-sign.

We are expecting a big turnout, and not just for the crepes. There’s something magical about gathering far from home and feeling completely at home anyway. Even wiffout Waffles here, we felt his spirit in the sunshine and the buttery air.

We also gently mentioned our donation basket, tucked beneath the syrup jug—because printing stickers and traveling to foreign countries is not free, and we are, in fact, a bit broke.

But mostly, it was joy. It was laughter. It was friends showing up, hungry and smiling.

We might be tiny, but our crepes are mighty.

—Fish
Keeper ob the Syrup, Defender ob the Breakfast, Trabeler Extraordinaire

PS: Dougie set up a side table labeled “Crepe Insurance – just in case you drop yours.” He made five euros and one marble. Honestly? Brilliant.

 

Hear ye, Hear ye….

King ob Thursdays

We’ve made it. Bonjour, Paris!

After a long flight, a questionable in-flight snack (Fish brought his own cheese, obviously), and one suitcase mix-up (Barry accidentally grabbed a bag full ob scarves), we officially touched down.

I posed nobly at the airport—because even wiff jet lag, royalty habs standards. My crown survived customs, Barry’s bear Batman made it fru security unscathed, and Fish immediately began sniffing the air for pastries. He claims he can “smell butter content from 40 yards.”

We’re all a little bleary-eyed and in desperate need ob a nap, ideally one involving a fluffy pillow and blackout curtains. Fish has already crawled into his travel pouch and mumbled somefing about “dreaming ob croissants.” Barry is trying to nap on top ob his suitcase, and I’be claimed a spot under the desk near the heater vent.

Next up: finding Reuben, flaky crusts, and answers about these mysterious snacks Dougie keeps whispering about.

But first… zzzzzzz.

—King ob Thursdays
Ruler of Terminal B and Keeper of the Royal Nap

From the Desk of Barry (Lemonade CEO, Paris-Bound Explorer)

This morning we realized a minor hiccup in our otherwise flawless Paris plan: we were a bit short on trabel monies. We hab the snacks, the enthusiasm, the oberpacked emotional support bear (that’s Batman, fank you), but not quite enuff funds for trabel juice. Or cheese emergencies. Or backup pastries.

But then the UPS man arribed wiff our Ratty Box – and it solbed all our problems! It was a pop-up lemonade stand, a good supply ob Nutri-berries, and a lemon themed toy and hammock which we will enjoy when we get home… So we did what any resourceful ratties would do—we launched our highly sophisticated financial initiative wiff all the principles ob diribitib theory: a lemonade and Nutri-Berri stand to make some quick monies.

Baxter found the perfect spot downtown and decorated it to “evoke citrusy optimism.” Fish brought out the Nutri-Berries from his personal stash (generous for him), and I handled pricing, customer serbice, and cash wrangling. The sign may hab been slightly crooked, but our spirits—and our lemonade—were perfectly balanced.

Business was brisk! People were drawn in by our charm, or possibly Baxter’s aggressive wabing. Either way, we earned enuff for the trip and a little extra for brie-based contingencies.

We set it up right in front of the deli where the breeze smelled like pickles and ambition. Baxter handled marketing and signage (he insisted on the yellow stripes), I ran the cash drawer, and Fish was in charge of quality control, which mostly meant taste-testing the berries. Repeatedly. For “safety.”

To our surprise, business was booming! A lovely lady bought five lemonades in a row “because she liked our ears.” Someone tipped us in coins and cheese coupons. We made more than enuff for our trabel and emergency cheese probisions. Bictory!

We packed up the stand just before sundown, pockets full and tails high.

Next stop: Paris. (Fank you Ratty Box!)

—Barry
Lemonade Tycoon & Traveler Extraordinaire

Reuben’s Trabel Journal Entry #17

Field Notes: Paris Catacombs, Day ???
Subject: An Unscheduled Incident Involbing Dougie, a Skull, and Possibly a Ghost

Today, against my better judgment, I accompanied Dougie on an underground excursion to the Paris catacombs. I know what you’re finking. Not a good idea…and don’t touch anyfing!

At first, it was oddly peaceful—dark, yes, and a bit damp, but the air smelled like old stones and quiet stories. I tried to enjoy it. I really did.

Then we saw it. A skull. Just sitting in the middle of the floor, not tucked neatly in the wall where it should be. Suspicious.

I stared at it. Dougie poked it.

“I fink it wants to go home,” he said.

Before I could stop him, he picked it up, whispered, “Pardon, monsieur,” and insisted we put it back where it belonged. Only problem—the skull’s former slot was much higher up on the wall.

Which is how I, a mild-mannered bakery enthusiast, ended up crouched wiff Dougie standing on my shoulders, wobbling and muttering something about “good bone feng shui” while trying to wedge a skull into place.

That’s when the wall creaked. No—opened. A full-on secret passage. The kind that smells like dusty cheese and forgotten secrets.

Dougie scrambled inside like he’d been inbited. I, frozen in a state of disbelief and bad posture, remained behind. Then I heard a clack. Possibly bones. Possibly… not friendly.

So now I’m writing this from a dim alcove while Dougie explores what I can only describe as a cursed corridor. There is a skeleton muttering in the shadows. I don’t speak ghost-French, but I think he’s saying, “Respect the arrangement!”

Will update if I survive. Or if Dougie finds cheese.

—Reuben
(Currently regretting eberyfing)

[Scrawled underneath in stubby pencil handwriting]
DOUGIE WAS HERE!!
I fink the ghosts are nice. They just want fings tidy. Also, I dropped a cracker and it disappeared sooo… maybe haunted, maybe snacky.—D.

Reubens Trabel Journal Entry #17


Field Notes: Paris Catacombs, Day ???

Subject: An Unscheduled Incident Involbing Dougie, a Skull, and Possibly a Ghost

Today, against my better judgment, I accompanied Dougie on an underground excursion to the Paris catacombs. I know what you’re finking. Not a good idea.

At first, it was oddly peaceful—dark, yes, and a bit damp, but the air smelled like old stones and quiet stories. I tried to enjoy it. I really did.

Then we saw it. A skull. Just sitting in the middle of the floor, not tucked neatly in the wall where it should be. Suspicious.

I stared at it. Dougie poked it.

“I fink it wants to go home,” he said.

Before I could stop him, he picked it up, whispered, “Pardon, monsieur,” and insisted we put it back where it belonged. Only problem—the skull’s former slot was much higher up on the wall.

Which is how I, a mild-mannered bakery enthusiast, ended up crouched wiff Dougie standing on my shoulders, wobbling and muttering something about “good bone feng shui” while trying to wedge a skull into place.

That’s when the wall creaked. No—opened. A full-on secret passage. The kind that smells like dusty cheese and forgotten secrets.

Dougie scrambled inside like he’d been inbited. I, frozen in a state of disbelief and bad posture, remained behind. Then I heard a clack. Possibly bones. Possibly… not friendly.

So now I’m writing this from a dim alcove while Dougie explores what I can only describe as a cursed corridor. There is a skeleton muttering in the shadows. I don’t speak ghost-French, but I think he’s saying, “Respect the arrangement!”

Will update if I survive. Or if Dougie finds cheese.

—Reuben(Currently regretting eberyfing)

[Scrawled underneath in stubby pencil handwriting]
DOUGIE WAS HERE!!
I fink the ghosts are nice. They just want fings tidy. Also, I dropped a cracker and it disappeared sooo…
maybe haunted, maybe snacky.—D.