Parisian photo-ops

Monmartre through time (taken in Musee d'Orsay)

Notre Dam

Notre Dam 

Notre Dam

Pere Lachaise Cemetery

Pere Lachaise Cemetery

Arc de Triomphe on Liberation Day

Arc de Triomphe

Moulin Rouge

Le Sacre-Coeur 

Le Louvre

Versailles 

Versailles

the 17th Arrondissement 

Down by the station

Aside from using your feet to get you from point A to B in Paris, there are a variety of other options offering that same service. During my stay, I took advantage of two: the bikes and the metro.

Unlike Amsterdam, where people steal a bike when they don't have one and want to get around, Paris has stations where people can borrow a bike when they don't have one and want to get around. With a small fee of 29 Euros for a yearly subscription, you're given a card to borrow any bike from any of the many stations around the city.  Et voila, your ride is free... for the first 30 minutes that is. Any longer, your card is charged. But with so many stations around, it's not a problem. Because when you're coming near your 30 minute mark, you deposit the bike in the nearest station, wait 10 minutes and take it again for yet another free 30 minute ride. It's as simple as that.

There are a few things to do when choosing a bike - before removing it from the stand. I like to call them the golden rules:

1. Check the appearance. Now's the time to judge a book by its cover.
2. Kick the tires.  (Not to be mean, but to see if they're full).
3. Ring the bell. Seriously. You'll need it.
4. Make sure the seat is adjustable and not stuck. Then adjust it accordingly.
5. Squeeze the breaks on the handle bars. You should know what good breaks feel like. If not, back off  and find another form of transportation.
6. Finally, pretend to take the bike out of its holder. No, not to see if you can steal it. You just want to make sure it's not jammed.

All that's left is to swipe the card on the reader next to the bike, wait for the light to turn green, and take the bike. Now you're ready to put your fate in the hands of Parisian drivers.

As nice as bikes are, though, the metro really is the most convenient option. They're punctual, quick, and easy to maneuver. Plus, there are two varieties offered: fast (RER) and slow (metro). The RER only goes to certain stations, cutting down the travel time since it doesn't stop as frequently. Although, it's only advantageous to those living near, or going to, one of the designated stations. The metro, by comparison, opens its doors at every stop - as you've clearly figured out by this point.

Like the bike system, transportation subscriptions are also offered for the underground - because no one wants to carry around a booklet full of single journey tickets. The caveat is as follows, though. Yes. There's always a caveat. The Navigo card (whether a weekly, monthly or yearly renewable subscription), must have a micro-photograph of the user attached to it, along with a signature. A micro-photograph is like a passport photo, but a quarter of the size.

Thing is, I didn't put much importance on the photo... or the signature. I figured, that way, I could leave it with the friends I was staying with. Then, one day while running late for school as I was transferring metros, I was stopped by a wall of transportation police at the Opera station. They were checking to see if people had tickets. I had my trusty Navigo card, so I wasn't worried.

I handed it over, ready for the guard scan it and hand it back so I could continue on my way. Instead, after scanning it, he flipped the card over and started talking to me in French. The translated version of the conversation is as follows:

Metro man - "You don't have a photo on here. You must pay 30 Euros."

Me - "What?"

Metro man - "You don't have a photo on here. That means you pay 30 Euros."

Note: I had spent over 65 Euros for the card.  He was asking me to spend 30 more.

Another note: Sometimes, when frustrated, I unwillingly cry.  Once such occasion occurred here.

So, to sum up thus far: I'm in a busy metro station, late for class, blocked by an aging transportation  agent demanding money, and my tear ducts decide to go into overdrive.

Me - "I... I... my French is not so good. I... Can I just get a photo now and put it on?"

Metro man - "No. You must pay 30 Euros."

Me - "I don't have 30 Euros with me."

Confession: I did have 30 Euros in my wallet. I hoped by lying I would get out of paying. Yes, I'm going to hell. But it didn't work anyway. See:

Metro man - "That's OK. We take credit card."

I pulled out my PIN card, grudgingly, and gave it to the agent. He placed it in the mobile card machine, punched some numbers, and turned it my direction to enter the pin.  The funny thing about my card in Paris is that it didn't always work - namely at select restaurants, and in the middle of a metro blockade. The agent tried twice. That beautiful thing just wouldn't allow my hard earned funds enter the hands of the money grubbing transportation company.

He asked for another card. I offered a credit card - of which I didn't know the pin for. But no pin, no transaction. I tried explaining, then grew tired of speaking French and used English, to his dissatisfaction. Another agent was called over. In English he said that since I was willing to pay, yet unable, I was set free. He directed me to a photo booth. The booth didn't accept my 5 Euro bill. I walked over to the nearest vender who traded paper for coinage. I deposited the money, chose a few onscreen options, then sat still as a statue waiting for the flash.

I stepped out of the booth and collected the photo sheet only to discover I chose the passport size instead of the micro version. I crumpled it up in my hand and left for class. 

the real Paris

"Just be careful going up there," I was told right before taking the metro to Porte de Clignancourt, the northern most stop on line 4.

I was running late, by 30 minutes. I hadn't realized the travel time would take as long as it had.  Each time I looked up from my watch, I noticed the demographics in the metro car had changed yet again. Once the doors opened at the final stop, I rushed into the station and over to our planned meeting spot. Before I got there, though, I saw Rinaldo and Daniel.

"Oh good! You guys haven't left me yet," I sighed. "So where is everyone else?"

"Well, Yanick is with his new boyfriend and Anna isn't here yet," Rinaldo explained.

"New boyfriend?"

"Yeah, he's in looooove, because although they just met, they can't stop talking."

I rolled my eyes and went up to the street where Yanick was.

"In this area, 17 people can live in a single apartment like that one right there," Rimsa pointed out to him.

Rimsa was 'the new boyfriend'.  He had accompanied his girlfriend on her way work and met Yanick on his way back to the metro to return home.

"He used to live in this area," Yanick informed me, "so he'll show us around that market Anna wanted us to go to."

As if on cue, Anna arrived...  Rinaldo and Daniel in tow.

The group naturally broke into pairs as we walked to the street market, with Rimsa by my side.

"This is the real Paris," he explained. "Most of the items at the market are stolen goods."

A few illegal immigrants walked in our path. They held out phone cards, sunglasses and the likes, pressuring us to purchase something. Rimsa smiled at them all and politely declined.

After crossing a street, he went on.

"See, on the left? Cocaine dealers." They sat, bunched together, against an iron gate.  "And there. Just in front of us. They're gambling."  A few people huddled around a cocktail table which had been turned into a street-side casino.

We walked a little further and crossed another street. A few stands into the market, Anna turned to me.

"This is not was I was expecting," she bemoaned. "I thought it was going to be more like Portobello Market in Notting Hill."

It was anything but. Instead it was a Made-In-China mecca. Each item looked as though it would break after the first use. But we walked around it all, since it was our only reason for venturing north.

At the last stand Daniel stopped to buy a 10 Euro memory card for his camera.

"They said you can test it to see if it works," Rimsa translated.

It didn't.

Instead of trying another card, Daniel asked for his money back. The vendor shoved the 10 Euro note Daniel had given him into one pocket, and from another pulled out a different bill - a transaction which occurred after I had walked away.

I turned back around to see Daniel holding the bill in the air, towards the sun. He and Anna were inspecting every last inch while asking Rimsa if he knew what fake money looked like. Apparently, it looks a lot like the one Daniel held in his hand.

"It's not like it really matters though," Rimsa told Daniel after a real 10 Euro bill was returned to him, "you could have gone into any of the shops around here and they would have accepted it."

the cause of my poverty

Three or four years after my grandfather immigrated to the US, he was hired on as 2nd Vice Treasurer of an up and coming, sparsely known, amusement park. The genius behind the idea came from a pair of brothers who, years earlier, established a production company together. With the new venture, my grandfather was hired to help oversee the finances of it all.

Before the gates opened to the public, my 4 year old aunt tested rides that throughout the following decades would be enjoyed by millions upon millions of children, young and old.

But it was a family run company, my grandfather reasoned. He would never advance further than his current position, he assumed. So a few years after the launch and success of the park, he quit - thus squelching any opportunity for his posterity to become moguls in the Disney empire.

It also means that we have to pay the same astronomically priced entrance fee as every other peasant wanting to enter the world of magic and adventure.

Disney plays a part in our family's history though, and as such, we have an obligation to it. After all, some of my grandfather's ashes weren't scattered in the flower beds at the entrance of California's Disneyland by my aunt and mom for nothing.

So, with that obligation in mind, I implored a friend who was in town for the weekend to join me at the happiest place on earth. (Otherwise known as Disneyland Paris).

Although, truth be told... EuroDisney ain't all that.

Parlez vous Français?

Oui, je parle... un petit peu.

At least I do now. After three weeks of intensive courses and 20 hours worth of private lessons prior to my stay in 'Pair-eeee'.

I was nervous, though, before taking the initial placement exam at the language school. Complete beginners are allowed to start the course every other week. (Which sandwiched the week I started).

Per their website, a non-beginner is someone who has studied French for more than 125 hours. The hours of pre-Paris tutorage I received didn't even come close to the requirement. But, five minutes before my final private lesson concluded, my teacher taught me the basic principles behind the most used form of past tense: passé composé. And that, je pense, made all the difference. 

I passé-composéd the heck out of my verbal exam, and apparently did a great job using a momentarily magical power of deduction on the multiple choice test. Because I was placed in a higher class level than I ever would have imagined. (Instead of the alternative... experiencing ridicule and shame for clearly disregarding what was advised online by arriving on a 'not for beginners' week).

And then, thanks to the similarities between Portuguese and French, along with the art of language feigning, I was placed in a more advanced class on a weekly basis. 

Donc, oui. Je parle. 

déjà vu

The first time I went to Paris, about 5 years ago, we rushed to as many touristic sites as possible in a two day timeframe. (A common occurrence when traveling with my mother). Suffice it to say, the experience wasn't the most enjoyable and I left thinking the city was only OK at best.

But I've recently come to discover, with a three week stint in the city, that Paris is like a fine piece of chocolate. (An analogy I'll use since I don't drink wine... besides, chocolate is amazing). To experience the rich flavor, in all its spectrums, it must be slowly savored and not downed in one bite. Because through savoring it, the city jumps from mediocre to magical.

Staying with friends in their amazing apartment near the Arc de Triomphe doesn't hurt either.

In search of Brad Pitt.

The French Riviera was all abuzz. Not just because of the 65 annual Cannes Film Festival, but the Brad Pitt was there... alone. (Queue the high pitched screeches and fainting women). Since I wouldn't have to compete with Angelina, I flew down to ask him out for drinks. Because, really, why would he say no?

With friends who had first hand knowledge of the area, having moved there a few month's prior, I knew I couldn't fail. So our search began.

We scoured Cannes.

Walked up and down the Nice coastline.

Looked around every corner in Antibes.

Climbed the highest mountain.

Traveled down to the lowest valley.

And we even border-crossed into Monaco.

But he stealthy evaded my invitation by steering clear of me all together. Obviously it was his loss, right?

Right??

sailing along on Moonlight Bay

I could have stayed in Bonifacio for days more than just a few hours.  But the sea beckoned and we couldn't leave it waiting. (Plus, I had a flight to catch the following evening).

Once the skies darkened, our bellies were full, and one extra person came aboard, the 5 and a half (the dog) of us set sail. The stars were out in abundance and we all sat on deck, with our faces to the wind.

"I see a little silhouetto of a man, Saramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango!" we sang.  "Send a bolt of lightning, very, very frightening me."  Simon, our most recent boarder, even singing the instrumentals.  Queen would have been so proud.

Later he sang us songs from his native French tongue.

Tim taught us the basic navigation skills needed for the night skies, the flashing lights in the distance, and how to determine how far we were from each.

When the hours drew on, the air got cooler. I could no longer stand on deck without shivering, so I ventured below.  On the captain's desk sat the nautical chart.  I watched as Tim moved his tools around on the map, unsure of what he was doing.  He explained that the tool I lovingly called 'the ruler thingie' was technically referred to as a Portland Plotter. He gave instructions on how to read the map, use the tools, and provide the exact degree the boat should be pointing to the person at the helm. Then, he left me to my own devices.

Talk about confidence.  So in between playing an off-shoot rendition of scrabble with Sarah, another passenger, I safely led us to the marina.  And, just to toot my own horn, I even (correctly) informed everyone of the precise arrival time.  That is mad navigating skills right there.

the French island

The evening of our first day sailing, we arrived in La Maddalena, an island north of Sardinia.  I found it beautiful, an Italian riviera feel. "It's nice," Tim said, "but it's no Bonifacio... just wait. You'll see."

I wasn't expecting to visit Corsica.  After all, I only had 3 full days of vacation.  But, early the next morning we set "sail" for the 30 mile journey to the north.  The thought of sailing always intrigued me, and I had a huge desire to experience it.  Sailing along the coast of Sardinia the day before was touch and go, but in the end we had enough wind to get us to our destination.  The path to Corsica, however, was as still as still could ever be.

We tried multiple times to catch whatever light breeze would blow in our direction.  But it availed us nothing.  Instead, we motorboated it at a whopping 3-5 miles an hour, sail-less.

I could have been left feeling disappointed, as though I was given the short end of the stick.  But with the view that awaited us at our final destination, all of those feelings would have disappeared anyway.

Tim was right, Bonifacio was spectacular.  Better than I could have ever imagined.  And a place where even pictures can't give justice.

Dog-gone!

Luckily Val Cenis had more to do than skiing or snowshoeing.  The second full day we spent there would have felt eternal had I not found another activity to do.  I could only walk down the same main drag and walk into the same 5 shops so many times.  I knew things were starting to get really bad when I enjoyed washing dishes by hand... just to have something to do.

What had caught my eye the moment I looked into the activity brochure was ice waterfall climbing.  I wish I could say that's exactly what I did.  But it's not, since that option was only available from mid January to mid February.  So I moved onto my second choice: cross-country skiing.  Sadly, that too was unavailable, due to being booked solid.  There was one other option, a glimmer of hope for a somewhat event filled day: dog sledding.  It was 40 Euros for 30 minutes, but I gave in... mainly because it's something I had always wanted to do.

For 40 Euros I imagined I'd be able to somehow take the reins, for a few minutes at least. I later realized a large part of the money was actually just used for the care of the huskies, because instead of standing at the back of the sled, I found myself seated in it, with a blanket wrapped tightly around me.

In the end, I guess it was better that way, since, like I previously acknowledged, I don't speak French and apparently that's the only language the dogs know... besides the basic bark that is.  Either way, my commands would have probably led me right over a cliff.

Alpine alternative

So what does a girl do when she's stuck in the French Alps with no fireplace to be found, although she brought an ample supply of books for that one purpose alone?  Well, she snowshoes - with a nice guide who, at one point, asks if she's lazy because she doesn't speak French.

(I told him I am fluent in Portuguese and have a basic understanding of Dutch.  Although he didn't say it, I knew the word "touche" flashed through his mind ).

backing down

The evening of December 10th, my mom prevailed.  Whether she won the war due to my being the weaker species or that I had no fight left in me, may be something I'll never know.  All that matters is we finally put an end to the back and forth vacation dialog and settled on a location to visit.  It wouldn't have been my first choice... heck, it probably wouldn't have been my fifth, but the thought of filling up one more night with seemingly endless destination searches exhausted me.

She wanted to go skiing, to spend a winter holiday doing a winter sport.  Fair enough... except, skiing is not my thing.  Nor is snowboarding for that matter.  I tremble just thinking about going down tree lined mountains at high speeds with little children of no more than 5 years of age speeding past from every angle.

My mom would repeat the following phrase at least twice a day, from the moment she picked me up at the train station in Germany until all chances were lost:  "You should give skiing a try, Claire.  You may find that you like it."  As many times as she would state it, I'd reply, "Mom, seriously... please listen this time.  I've gone skiing and snowboarding before.  I didn't really like it then, and I'm pretty sure 'giving it another try' won't change my mind this time around either."  Truth be told, my main dislike is what has inevitably happened each time I've left the slopes: feeling like an old woman, with a twisted knee here and a hurt back there.  I could visualize myself this time, exclaiming like one of the elderly in the commercials that aired in the '90's, "Help!  I've fallen and I can't get up!"

Like I stated before, however, as little interest I had in spending the holiday in an alpine village, on December 10th it was settled.  So, after confining myself in my mother's kitchen for two days, catering Christmas feasts, we left for Val Cenis in the French Alps.

The dealings of an indecisive mother

Ok, so let's rewind the clock a few months, say to September, three months before Christmas.  That is when my mother and I started planning our holiday vacation.  During those months, my life was consumed with evening phone calls, hours of internet research, emails bombarding my inbox and quite a bit of frustration.

Our planning could have been relatively simple, if the Mediterranean Cruise we had both agreed upon hadn't been full.  Or if flights to Egypt didn't skyrocket between the weeks of December 15th - January 5th.  Instead, the weeks leading up to Christmas were left to brainstorming... and a bit of healthy banter in between.

Mom:  "I know, we can go to the Canary Islands for Christmas!"
Me:  "Great, and we can pretend we're in the UK, just farther south."  (Since the Canary islands are filled with Englishmen during the holiday).
               ...
Mom:  "I've got it!  We can go to Scotland and stay in a castle!"
Me:  "Perfect.  That way we can be cold outside AND inside."
               ...
Me:  "How about Greece or Turkey?"
Mom:  silence
               ...
Mom:  "I've figured it out!  We can go to Finland... that's where they say Santa lives."
Me:  "Mother, please."
               ...
Mom:  "Claire, I don't see why you're making things so difficult."
Me:  "Well, what about Greece or Turkey?"
Mom:  silence
               ...
(Please note, the following conversation was over a 3 day period)
Sunday, via a phone call:
Mom: "How about Croatia?  I can go skiing and you can explore the towns?"
Me: "Sounds good to me... let's book this thing!"
Monday, via email:
Mom: "Claire, I've found the perfect place.  It's a small village in the French Alps and has tons of other activities for you to do while I ski.  Love, your mother."
Me:  "Wonderful!  I'm  sold!  Seal the deal!  ... Claire."
Tuesday, via phone call:
Mom: "Claire, this is your mother."
Me: "Really?"
Mom: "Don't be mean, because I've figured out where we're spending Christmas.  How about Italy, on a lake, it has tons of skiing and lots of things for you to do."
Me: sigh
                 ...
Mom: "Where's Dusseldorf?"
Me: "It's near the Dutch border."
Mom: "Oh, ok.  Did you know that if you took a train to Dusseldorf, you could take a night train to Krakow..." 
Me: (unable to hear the rest of what my mother is saying, due to my continually repeating):  "Mom, Mom, MOM, MOM, MOM!"
Sister: (joining the call) "Still planning your Christmas vacation I take it?"

Day 2: Le Art de Paris

Our train was scheduled to go out of Paris East Station that night. When we went to store our luggage there that morning we found out it would be much cheaper to put them in the lockers at the Paris North Station. Thankfully they were only one stop away from each other by metro. However, once our luggage was safely packed away, it was nearing 11:am, and due to metro maintenance we wouldn't have made it to Versailles (which was our planned destination of the day) until around noon at the earliest. So, we decided to nix the plan, since we wanted to see a few museums in the city as well, and wouldn't have made it back into Paris before 5:pm when those museums closed.

There are at least 2 main attractions that tourists visit while in Paris. One being the Eiffel Tower and the other the Louvre. I enjoy going to museums, and probably could have spent hours if not days wandering around the halls of the Louvre. But my feet were aching from the day before, and my backpack, which was filled with 2- 1.5 liter bottles (you can never have too much water, especially when grocery stores are few and far between), was not pleasant to carry. I ended up taking every advantage I could to sit down. Unfortunately, the museum hardly has any seating, and I found it less than enjoyable standing while looking at all the paintings. So, after an hour of wondering around we headed to the room containing the main attraction at the Louvre. I've never understood the world's fascination with the Mona Lisa. It's not particularly a painting like. But we went to see it, just to say we did. I was at least 50 feet away from the painting, behind the hundred or so people crowded around it. I held my camera above the many heads, zoomed in on the painting, and took a picture. Proof, to anyone who may care, that I've seen THE Mona Lisa. I personally enjoyed seeing the Winged Victory of Samothrace much more, and could have skipped the Mona Lisa all together if it weren't for it's fame factor.
As we left the Louvre we were both were ready to sit down, so we made our way over to the area of the Opera House. We were sure we'd be able to find a place to eat there and visit the Opera House right after lunch. But, like the previous day, we were unable to find a quaint cafe, so we once again found ourselves back in the Latin Quarter. Oddly enough though, we then decided to get something cheap and had a gyro in a restaurant that was anything but quaint. But our trip to the Latin Quarter was well worth it once we had the most delectable gelato... in the shape of a rose no less.

Instead of heading right back over to the Opera House, we went to the Museum d'Orsay. The afternoon was already winding down, and we wanted to see the French Impressionistic paintings before it was too late. It was great seeing Monet and Renoir... with a bit of Van Gogh thrown in the mix as well (since he lived in Paris for quite some time). -- I'd fill my house with their paintings if I was wealthy enough.-- I must say though, that my favorite part of the museum was the wonderful chairs they had set up in the middle of the rooms. There is nothing better than admiring paintings from a seated position. I could have stayed in that museum much longer than we did, but we were kicked out about an hour after we entered due to it being closing time. Upon exiting, we saw a rather mean mime, mimicking passers by on the road. So, of course we sat down on the steps leading up to the museum to watch.
Once we had our fill of watching innocent bystanders being made fun of, we hopped back on our friend the metro to check a few more things off our list before our train left. First stop was the Moulin Rouge. Quite disappointing if you ask me. Not nearly as glamorized as it was in the movie. So, after a photo op, we left (besides it cost over 85 Euros per person just to stick your head inside). Next stop was back to the Opera House. It's a beautiful building and quite stunning as you walk up the stairs from the metro to see it right in front of you. Unfortunately, due to the time, we were unable to tour the inside of the building. So we threw that on the list of things to do for the next time we visit the city. We wandered a round a bit more and didn't even bother finding a restaurant in a new area. We went right over to the Latin Quarter, since it never failed us before. We had fondue at a small cafe on a tiny street while men were singing and playing instruments as we ate.

Although the night was still young, it barely being 9:pm, we left after dinner to gather our luggage at the station since our train was scheduled to leave at a quarter to 11. That was quite the event. My suitcase got stuck in the turnstile at the metro. It's actually a turnstile plus glass doors that open for you, and close immediately after. My suitcase got trapped in the doors. After pulling and pulling while my mom was pushing, and trying in vain to open up the doors, a man walked over and stood right next to the door, thus activating it. Not only was my luggage released, but he got into the metro for free.

Once we arrived at the Paris East station, my mom had to run to the convenience store to get more water. That took much longer than we expected, but we made it over to the correct car on the train. My mom got on first and then doors started closing... luckily my suitcase was once again stuck between some sliding doors, otherwise I wouldn't have made it on. And that concluded the first momentary panic attack of our 3 week trip.

Day 1: My Parisian Birthday

Birthdays are just like any other day, with the added benefit of receiving presents and eating cake. There are some people, however, who don't settle for the norm. Those are the people who think "Why have a good birthday by receiving presents and eat cake, when you can have a memorable birthday by opening presents and eating cake... in Paris?" This year, I was one of those people. However, I opened my present the day before; and skipped the cake and ate croissants instead.

We got up bright and early in the morning... or to be more realistic, dark and early in the morning and took the 6:30am high speed train down to Paris. Our cabin steward was hilarious, and provided us with a bounty of food for breakfast... croissants, croissants and more croissants all covered in chocolate. Definitely a good start to my special day.

After speeding through Holland, Belgium, and a bit of France we arrived in Paris around 11:00. Once we figured out where we were located on the map, and where our hotel was located we were able to figure out the metro system and made our way to the hotel. Now, I've been told that all hotels in Paris are quite poor in quality, and ours fit along quite well in that assumption. It was clean, light and airy... but it was nearly the size of a generous walk in closet. It had a bed that felt like you were sleeping on the floor with pillows so flat you really didn't know what they were there for. However the bathroom was quite nice, and you couldn't beat the absolutely perfect location. We were situated in the Trocadero: 1/3 of a mile away from the Eiffel Tower and 1/3 of a mile away from the Arc de Triomphe/Champs Elysees.

When you grow up seeing the Eiffel Tower in pictures... or in 3 inch miniatures, actually seeing the magnificent building for the first time as you round the corner is breath-taking. Once we were finished taking pictures from the Trocadero, we sat on the grassy hill overlooking the tower and ate lunch (brie, bread and fruit).

We then continued on to Notre Dam, because the lines to go up the Eiffel were worse than those you'd find at Disney on a busy day. By the time we walked over to the cathedral it was nearing the end of the afternoon, and the clouds had taken over the sky. So I wasn't able to see the reflection of the stained glass on the floor, but it was beautiful none-the-less. The only thing I was slightly sad about was not being able to ring the bells while yelling “sanctuary, sanctuary”. Fortunately, I live close to Paris so I haven’t given up on that dream entirely. Notre Dam was also enormous in size, but, in general, Paris is large in scale. All houses and apartment buildings are at least 6 stories high, so you can imagine the size of the buildings they want to stand out.

After touring Notre Dam and its grounds, we moved on to the Latin Quarter, which was our favorite area of Paris. It was much cozier than the rest of the city and felt more inviting. We ended up eating dinner and both lunch and dinner the next day in that area, since we liked it so much. But, before dinner we had much more to see.

We continued our day long self-guided walking tour by walking down the river, along the length of the Louvre which is at least a mile in length, and down the Champs Elysees. Needless to say, we were much too over zealous on day #1 and paid the consequences for the next few days with aching legs. The famous Champs Elysees was extremely over crowded and I personally felt it was slightly over rated. Yes, it was an absolutely beautiful street, but most of the shops I had noticed were ones you could find anywhere, and the restaurants weren’t anything close to a bistro or café you’d find on the smaller streets of the Latin Quarter. So we hopped on the metro and ate outside at a cute bistro with a waiter who sang questionable songs to us.

Once dinner was through, we took the metro back to the Eiffel Tower to go to the top. After waiting in line and paying for our entrance, we found out that the elevators had stopped for the night. So we had to climb the stairs. Ugh. We called it good on the first platform, even though we could have walked up to the second. By this time our legs were burning, especially since we had walked the city the whole day. But seeing the city from above (even in the dark) was quite nice. Good thing Paris is the city of lights.

Then before calling it a night, we walked past our hotel and over to the Arc de Triomphe …all lit up. It was a great ending to a wonderful birthday.