I've been putting off finishing my summer trip posts with info about my week in Paris, and then it all exploded. Literally. With everything going on in the last 24 hours, I can't help but think about walking those same streets just three months ago.
I first went to Paris when I was 20, on my first trip abroad. It was my first time in a country where I couldn't speak the language (6 months of 7th grade introductory French does NOT count!), my first time in Europe, and my first time winning something inside a candy-bar wrapper. I never got to use those free movie tickets, but I did develop a love for travel that stays with me today. It was rainy, cold, lonely, and I spent $50 on Metro tickets trying to figure out the machines in French. I still have some of the francs in my box-o-coins. Here, have a throwback photo:
My mother was the one who wanted to see Paris, and she and my dad were supposed to visit at the end of my Italy trip and fly to Paris on the way home. Three days before I left my mom had a freak accident that involved surgery and long recovery, so they couldn't come. I debated quite a while about whether to go at all, and in the end basically peer pressured a friend into buying at trans-Atlantic plane ticket to join me.
Paris the second time around was nothing like I remembered. It might be easy to chalk it up to more English or being more familiar in foreign countries but it was more. Paris was friendly, a happy city. It was cosmopolitan- you saw wondering American tourists standing beside Middle Eastern men with multiple wives at crosswalks. There were so many languages, with an undercurrent of French that was somehow more understandable this time around. Though remembering to speak it was tough- we did a lot of "Si. OUI! Damnit, not again!"
So what do you do in Paris for a week? You walk. You wander through neighborhoods pausing to take photos where famous artists lived. You eat delicious desserts and drink a lot of chilled wine on summer evenings. You take photos of art, of statues, of food, of yourself at awkward angles. You climb stairs to see pretty views, and then marvel how BIG this city is. You gawk at weird modern buildings so close to lovely historical architecture.
You watch the people and try to absorb their style. You try all of the samples at the many L'Occitane stores. You pose like statues in the museums and wonder if anyone will notice if you touch that piece of marble someone carved thousands of years ago. Was it their job or their passion? Did they bring their family to see the finished work and burst with pride? Was this even their best work, or has that long been destroyed? You fight crowds at museums to see the Mona Lisa and Degas' dancers, and then you stand in the strangely crowdless Orangerie surrounded by waterlilies. You hit 30,000 steps and still go to late hours at Louvre because you can. 
You spend a lot of time underground, laughing at the posters for Euro-Disney and that picture from the middle-of-nowhere South America you went five years ago in the Argentine stop. You get really mad that the line you really need to be on is down for construction and spend over an hour trying to get to Versailles.
You eat steak frittes with pepper sauce and wonder why it never tastes that good at home. You eat crepes out of paper cones that drip sugar and Nutella all over your hands and hope people don't judge you as you lick them off. You buy umbrellas because it looks like rain but never get very wet. You make faces at gargoyles and try to read stories in stained glass. You wonder how much has changed since Picasso and Hemingway were here, and what they'd think of the changes.
Paris was a pleasure this August. It was supposed to be mom's trip but it turned into my own, and I'd go back in a heartbeat, not just for the croissants but for the sophisticated, fun, worldly environment I found there. So my heart goes out to the city tonight as I write this, because it gave me so much this summer.
I hope one day I can return the favor.
