I checked that baby off with days to spare.
With only a few weeks' planning, Jimmy and I took an eight-day trip to London and Paris. We saw things we never imagined we’d see: the Rosetta Stone, a good chunk of the Parthenon, and ancient Egyptian relics at the British Museum (imperialism has its privileges); Shakespeare’s first folio, Jane Austen’s writing desk, and the Magna Carta at the British Library; a performance of Othello at The Globe (Wow. Wow wow wow.); Degas, Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh at Musee d’Orsay; millions of centuries-old skeletons (shiver) in the catacombs; the beauty of Notre Dame and Sacre Cour; and, of course, the Eiffel Tower.Even though London offered so much, something about London and I did not click. On paper, we’re pure chemistry. In reality, something's off. Everything I saw was incredible, but in-between stops it seemed like another big city. I imagined more of a pip-pip kind of vibe (perhaps I’ve seen My Fair Lady too many times), but its role as an international center seems to prevent it from having a distinctly local flavor, which is exactly what I travel for. (Although I enjoyed the irony that a country that spent centuries conquering a quarter of the globe now finds its capital under the influence of its former subjects; when we asked for a good British restaurant, the concierge directed us to a fantastic curry place.)
Paris, however, was instant infatuation. The cafés! The parks! The fashion! The cheese! It’s a big city that takes time to smell the chocolate crepes; even in a hurry, one can make time to add the perfect scarf to an outfit and then saunter off in gorgeous heels. So much of it seemed a beautiful dichotomy of young and old, refined and nonchalant. And did I mention the chocolate crepes?
We stayed in a 19th century apartment in Montmarte, impressionism’s birthplace (19th century rents were cheap, wine not taxed; for struggling Parisian artists, parfait!) and mere blocks from Sacre Cour. (If you’ve seen Amelie, you’ve seen the apartment: it’s directly across from the market.) We explored the narrow cobblestone streets, always finding a café in which to drink wine or espresso and to people watch; we dined on cheese, bread and wine for many a meal (and I could do so for every meal of my life); we entertained Parisians with our attempts at the language (the R will always be beyond me). Despite the big stops on our itinerary, some of my favorite moments were spent wandering the streets and stopping at cafés or shops, in the Latin Quarter and Montmarte, especially. We even scrapped our last day of sightseeing in Versailles to spend a leisurely day of exploring and café-hopping, practicing my well-rehearsed Je voudrais carafe de vin rouge, s'il vous plait.
My favorite moment in Paris came atop the Eiffel Tower. I was almost embarrassed about wanting to go, considering my years mocking tourists who wait hours to go up the Washington Monument (ascending 555 feet to gaze at a city with 110-foot building restrictions and largely uninspired architecture). The Eiffel Tower is no Washington Monument. We went to the very top just in time to watch the sun set. There aren’t words to describe the view. Then we descended to the second tier to watch as the city lights came on, one by one, slowly illuminating the city as darkness enveloped it. As the time grew later, the crowd thinned, and I was able to sit in a corner against the railing and gaze up at the tower, which is a perfect place to feel very small. Then the sparkly lights started their ten-minute dance. I sat with Jimmy, equally laughing and crying, recognizing it as a perfect moment. When the sparkling dimmed, I smiled and thought, "OK, I’m ready to turn 30 now."
