Paris, Parks, Pigeons, and Pockets

185 kph. That's how fast we got to drive on the Autobahn. In a Mercedes-Benz. To Paris. 

We drove for six hours the first weekend of October, chatting the whole way about how we are livin' the dream. Until we stopped just outside of Paris, bumper to bumper, at a traffic light. That's when the window washers vivaciously shot our windows with soap and squeegeed them clean. They were joyfully animated until we didn't pay them for something we didn't ask for. Persistent fellows, banging on our windows. That red light seemed longer than the entire drive to Paris.

We finally made it to our apartment, which was located in the hipster-trendy, northeastern part of Paris. While we were awaiting our travel partners, we decided to take a stroll to a nearby park. I'll just remind everyone that Europeans know how to do parks. Parc de la Villette offered zip lines, running hills, climbing nets, bounce pads, and (to Sebastian's delight) pigeons.

We found our way back to the apartment, expecting David and Sabrina at any moment. David is one of my oldest friends. In fact, the first time I traveled to Europe ten years ago with Crew 425, it was with David. When he and Sabrina were first married, I visited their house at least once a week. They would talk of traveling through Europe in so many years, and I joked that they could pay me to accompany them and be their translator. Well, in case you don't know Sabrina—she doesn't joke around.

They arrived around eight o'clock in the evening. We decided to drive to a widely recommended spot, Sacré-Cœur, to enjoy the Parisian moonlight. David rode up front, I sat in between two car seats, and Sabrina got marooned in the back. It turns out, everyone had the same idea. Parking in Paris is, in case you can't imagine, like parking on a cloud—impossible. So we spent a while circling the basilica before we decided we should turn around. We forgot our camera anyway.

We started the next morning with a walking tour of the right bank of Paris. We began with the opera house (the inspiration for the "Phantom of the Opera"), strolled past the Ritz hotel, gazed at ritzy diamond jewelers, and studied the architectural renovations. We ended at a charming park, complete with rude Parisian children. The highlight of the tour, however, was the most perfect sunlight and clear sky.

We wanted to enjoy that sunlight as we ate our lunch. We found an outdoor spot at a nearby cafe, only to realize the menu was Americanized and a bit more than we wanted to pay. Burgers in Paris? Sinful. So we turned a corner and found a pleasant little bakery with fresh sandwiches under four euros a piece. Score! We now know that mascarpone cheese makes a heavenly sandwich spread and that quiche lorraine is a new Sebastian favorite. We perched ourselves on a stone wall outside of the Louvre and reveled in our bakery find.

After lunch, we wandered along the Seine, pausing to admire the bridges and vendors. The paintings made us stop. Now, five years ago, I walked through similar streets lined with vendors selling jewelry, souvenirs, and paintings. An impressionist painting of the city of L'viv caught my eye. I debated for a few minutes whether or not I should buy it, but ultimately decided against it. I've regretted that decision since the minute I walked away. So when we passed these paintings of the Eiffel Tower, we couldn't pass another opportunity. We now own original art.

We found our art-owning selves at the base of a lovely bridge where a tour boat was docked. We decided a hour-long tour on the water would give us another chance to rest our feet and bask in the sunlight. (I brought sunscreen—don't worry.) Sebastian loved being on the boat but did not, apparently, love the sights.

We walked over to the Notre Dame, stopping to enjoy another highly recommended to-do: crepes. Now, don't hate me, but I wasn't impressed. I have had crepes just as good in my days at the FLSR and in my own kitchen. That may be because we stopped at the wrong crepe stand. I saw some mighty delicious-looking crepes after we came out of Notre Dame. Next time, I keep telling myself.

Notre Dame was as impressive as it sounds in Hunchback, which I read in its entirety while living in Ukraine. Although I don't remember all the details of what I read, the details are obvious when you step in front of this building. What is most impressive, however, is that construction of this magnificent building began even before the year 1200 and was finished in the mid-1300s. I often marvel at the Salt Lake Temple, constructed in the 1800s. Not even considering the technology and equipment available at the time, the stonework is immaculate. But Notre Dame is a completely different level of grandeur. Not only was it completed hundreds of years before, but the meticulous Gothic elements and vibrant stained glass are more than stunning.

This building did not disappoint—well, every visitor except Sebastian. We very well could take a space ship to Mars, and he would only be disappointed that there were no pigeons. So, Sebastian has now chased the Rats of the Sky in two nations' capitols this year.

But look at the way he folds his hands as we walk away.

We hopped on the metro, giddily discussing our evening plans: Going out for escargot and night-seeing Sacré-Cœur while David and Sabrina watch our sleeping babies. We couldn't even remember the last time we went on a date. My mouth was already watering thinking about all that garlic and butter . . . until we realized Curtis's wallet was no longer in his pocket.

Pickpocketed.

I learned quickly on the metros in Kiev how to hold your bags when you're smashed in between countless people. I guess the small towns around Berlin are different. Despite his preemptive tactic of keeping his wallet in his front pocket, they still got to it. Too bad we just visited an ATM.

Well, that put a downer on the evening. It's a good thing that our friends are so good, they not only babysat for free but paid for our night out.

It turns out that after putting babies to sleep, searching the apartment frantically for a wallet just in case, and moping around, we didn't actually leave the apartment until probably after ten p.m. I usually go to bed by then! We were on the metro home near (!) one in the morning. So much for going to the Louvre early in the morning.

We decided instead to drive to the Eiffel Tower. How many cars could be out on a Sunday morning anyway? Uh. Driving in Paris is crazy. We didn't know it before we got there, but the roundabout near the Arc de Triomphe is insane. I didn't whip my camera out until after our near-death experience, but there aren't even lines. I do not exaggerate when I say we are lucky to have made it out alive! Without a scratch, even!

But we were rewarded with a perfect parking spot. In fact, it was too perfect. We were so close to the Star of Paris that we had to walk like a mile to get this picture.

Eating snails was on my bucket list. Holding the Eiffel Tower was on Curtis's.

We stopped at a small park with a perfect view of the Tower to let Sebastian chase some more pigeons and to let Livia enjoy her last moments in the City of Love. Look at those lips.

Paris was too much for two days, but I believe we saw nearly everything we wanted to see. I told Curtis, "I can see why people like it here." The rich history, the grand architecture, the delicious food. (The gorgeous weather helped too.) But I can't stress enough how stressful it was not knowing French. I've never been in that situation before. But I blame myself. And aside from the rude Parisian kids who literally screamed in Sebastian's face on the playground (and the rude pickpocketer who stole our money), we met lovely and hospitable French people, especially the host of our apartment. When we go back (which we will), we want to get proper crepes, speak French, climb to the top of Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, and leave the car at home.