Paris Returns — A Free Ride to the City of Light

From Frankfurt to Paris

Although I’m ashamed to admit I’m one of the men who had fallen victim to a Sex and the City DVD viewing romp with the lady, all had not been lost. The ability to put my man stamp on a seemingly woman-like notion fortunately still existed.

A summer’s ticket to Paris became a multicultural event of sorts, with only a dash of mush here and there, quite the contrary to the previous year’s one-time orthodox romance voyage.

Nonetheless, the Parisian passion was alive and well in the City of Light. And as that cheeseball Petrovsky smugly said to a table full of New Yorkers:

“New York is wonderful, but there is nowhere like Paris.”

I’m afraid Petrovsky was right.

The Highlights:

The free first-class ICE train tickets (which I won at an event raffle) from Frankfurt (Germany) to Paris, without which an intimate Bonjour would not have been possible.

Wandering the precipitous, idyllic back streets of the Montmartre district — the new song on our Paris album — and retracing the footsteps of its most famous bohemians, before taking in a loft view of the city at the landmark Sacre Coeur.

Traversing the Pigalle (red-light district) and unintentionally stumbling upon the world-famous cabaret Moulin Rouge for an evening photography extravaganza.

Relishing the tasty French fare at a couple of charismatic brasseries and one doughty little bistro in particular, Chez Toinette.

Marathon walking the Rue St-Honore and ultimately coming to a stop at the elevated park of Promenade Plantee for some peaceful derriere resting, dorky photo snapping, and flower watching.

Seeing the Eiffel Tower in all its glory just before the stroke of midnight on a balmy Saturday evening.

Getting up close and personal with the magnificence that is the Louvre and then following suit along the tourist trail with some gawking stares at DaVinci’s muse, the Mona Lisa.

Catching the last leg of the Tour de France along the Champs-Elysées, an exciting experience for someone who’s been spoiled by great American sports, and one other kid in a candy shop who marveled at the sight of this grand sporting event she watched growing up.

Aside from the plain-Jane three-star hotel with no air conditioning on the sixth floor, the humid weather, and an occasional case of the bad-sense-of-direction blues, there wasn’t much complaining to be had.

After all, we were in Paris. There really is no place like it.