Paris, France

Paris is a city of love, a city of fashion and style, a city in a country with over 452 official government cheeses. I did not go there for any of the above, well, maybe a bit for the cheese. My trip to Paris was another family excursion. We rented an apartment in the city—which, incidentally, can actually be cheaper than staying in a hotel. It was a lovely apartment, close to the Champs Elysees and the Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel tower was visible from my parents' bedroom window. As was to be expected, my parents had secured the best room in the place for themselves leaving my brother and I to the tender mercies of one another's sleeping antics. It took only one sleepless night for me to discover that I could not share a bed with my younger sibling lest I was willing to forgo my sanity. For while my brother slept peaceful as a winged cherub, taking post in the center of the double bed with his head wandering over to drool on my pillow, I was left in a state of high agitation, like Cujo when he first begins showing signs of rabies. I felt wild with the panic to achieve sleep and tried at first to communicate my distress with loud sighs and growls, later resorting to dramatic thrashing and skillfully aimed elbows, all to no avail. Needless to say, the next night I opted for the large sofa downstairs—not without considerable grumbling—and was pleased to find that I actually preferred this to the bed. The next day I offered the bed and its hard mattress to my brother with affected generosity.

Another perk to renting an apartment is that you can save on food. Sure you can still go out for dinner or lunch, but every now and then a meal in doesn't hurt. Especially breakfast. Here is where we triumphed. Much to my father's delight, there was already a fully equipped espresso machine provided in the apartment—complete with espresso pods—and so for food we simply frequented the local bakery for chocolate-filled pastries and the like. The combination of all this made for a most satisfactory breakfast, and as I was sleeping on the sofa downstairs, every morning I was pleasantly awoken to the flavorful smells of roasting coffee and buttery, chocolate-filled croissants.

We spent five days in Paris enjoying the popular tourist attractions: Napoleon's Mausoleum, shopping down the Champs Elysees, a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower during the day and enjoying the light show at night, the Louvre, and the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Here, near the Seine River, is where the focus of this story begins. It was the middle of June and the weather was warm, if a bit breezy. In the interest of appearing every bit Parisian I donned the white sundress I had recently purchased. It was a light and airy affair, with the type of skirt that would float out high around one if one was so compelled to twirl.

We made a point to walk everywhere we went. It is the best way I can think of to witness the true culture of a place. How else can you fully appreciate the young boy in the marketplace being berated by his mother in rapid French after having hurled a well-aimed stone at his younger sister? Or the man selling flowers who bestows upon you a toothless grin and insists you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen shortly after insisting the same thing to the group of women ahead of you? If you opt for speed and comfort all of this culture, the very people who make up the skeletal frame of a place, will elude you. This is what traveling is about after all. It is about experience and learning something new from people you do not know. It is about discovering how similar we are as humans despite our race and language. It is about seeing, hearing, and smelling things you have never seen, heard, or smelled before.

But I digress.

So we were on our way to Notre Dame. When we reached the square in front of the church I stared up in wordless wonder, the eyes of the 28 kings of Judah and Israel staring back. The two towers rose up, casting us in the shadows of their sacred walls, walls that have endured the passing of time for nearly 900 years. As I looked up into the stained-glass of the rose window, I marveled at the sheer age of the place, the grace of its Gothic architecture, and the humbling power it seemed to exude. After walking through the central portal depicting the last judgment, my brother and I parted from my parents and wandered aimlessly around the vast space. Inside is dimly lit and one can feel the age of the stone. It seems to murmur as you pass, whispering at you the secrets of years gone by. It was easy to imagine myself in another time as I looked up all around me, the stone walls rising up into apparent darkness as colored rays of sunlight filtered in through the stained glass.

My brother and I reconvened sometime later with my parents and left the interior of the sanctuary with the intent of venturing up to the top of the cathedral. This, we discovered, could be done for a price, and if we were willing to wait in the hour-long line outside. As it turned out we were willing and ended up spending the next forty-five minutes in a line that, thankfully, was positioned along a store-lined street! Mom and I were beside ourselves with glee and took advantage of our prime location, leaving the men to hold our position whilst we flitted back and forth between store and line like bees from flower to hive. When we were finally permitted to go up—and after completing a rather strenuous climb—the four of us gazed out at all of Paris spreading around us. The view was astounding. One could see for miles the buildings and bridges crossing the river, cars zipping along the streets below, the Eiffel tower rising high above the rest, and—Oh! As I stepped further out onto the exposed area at the top of the cathedral the wind picked up and took with it the oh-so-airy material of my sundress, sending it sailing up around my head like an umbrella in a hurricane. My hands flew to restrain the unruly fabric—not unlike Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch, but if her face had been contorted in mortified horror and her motions frantic and disjointed. I proceeded carefully after that until a photo opportunity distracted me and I released my skirt for the briefest of moments only to have it billow up once more. Fortunately my brother had been near at hand and launched himself forward to my rescue. From that moment on he remained close by my side lest the dress should again decide to take leave and rise aloft.

That night we lingered in town a bit longer to watch the light show at the Eiffel tower. I have heard that the locals find this display of electricity mundane and excessive, but I found it to be quite enjoyable and must assume that the people around me did as well. There were loads of people gathered all around; some standing at a distance, some directly beneath the impressive radio tower, and others perched on blankets in the grass. The atmosphere was light and cheerful. I can't be sure if our fellow onlookers were native Parisians, or enraptured tourists, but whatever they were, we all shared one thing in common: in that moment, we were all happy to be there.