Here’s the thing about Paris. It’s been written about a thousand times over with the air of elusive romance that even lovers steeped in flirtations sigh about. So when you go in with a cynical nose upturned, ready to find a city that’s been oversold, be prepared to be disappointed, because Paris is everything that’s been written about it. And more… The romance lies stagnant in the air, as people walk in droves on the banks of the Seine, the greenish water rippling with the breeze, the gothic buildings tower over you as you walk along the small cubby stores alongside the road selling vintage art prints and souvenirs. The perfect blend of modern graffiti on the walls that beckons in friendly casualness and the gothic, baroque history that looms over you in startling beauty. The only way to fall in love with this city is to walk its streets slowly, experience all that travel books have warned you about, eat your weight in decadent pastries and airy macaroons, and do it all with just a pinch of madness.

The trip started off with a five am journey from London St. Pancras Station to Paris’s famed Gare Du Nord. I, with my penchant for mishaps, looked at the wrong train times and my best friend, Julia, overslept,  both meeting each other outside the dorms, half-dressed. When you travel to Paris in flannel sleep pyjamas paired with leather boots, you can guarantee it’s going to be a crazy kind of adventure. Julia and I hailed an Uber driver, who drove at break-neck speed which had me praying for my life as Jules made casual small talk with the driver as to why we were late. It was by some small miracle that we made it on board and collapsed on our seats and then finally stopped to laugh. London to Paris is only a two-hour train journey so when we stepped out of Gare Du Nord, the sun shone bright and sunny and the train station was thronged by taxi drivers.

Here’s a tip – when you need a cab in Paris always use Uber and your ears. When we sat in the cab, suitcases set, the cabbie a young wiry man with a heavy French accent rattled off the number of euros it would take to get to Champs-Élysées, where we were staying. I readily agreed, thinking to myself that 5 euros to go a forty-minute distance was a pretty sweet deal. The cabbie turns up the radio and lowers the window, the wind rushing alongside us as we take in the streets, apartment buildings still adorned with black gothic balconies and trees on each side of the road forming a colonnade of green. It was a stunning entry to the city as we stopped just a few meters away from the Arch. The cabbie opened my door and held out a palm for his money. It was after placing the crisp five euro note in his hand and registering his aghast expression that I realized the price for the ride was a steep 75 euros. It was like the splash of cold water that your mom dumped on you to wake you up for school. At any rate, we checked into Hotel Cecilia on Avenue Mac Mahon, brushed our “We almost missed the train here” hair, applied some lip-gloss and headed for the metro, each of us buying ten tickets before we headed out on the M1 train to the Louvre, feeling very Parisian. The train ran by as we took pictures and posed waiting for our stop until we realized we were on the wrong train going in the opposite direction. It took us a while to ask around before getting on the right one. Always, always, always learn a few French phrases before you go to France because everything in the metro will be announced and written only in French.

The Louvre is a work of art. The palace, now a museum sprawls, out in true French splendor, the glass pyramid glinting in the sun. The magnitude of artwork to be seen is so great, that it’s best to make a list of what you really want to see rather than rush around the museum trying to see everything. The line to see the Mona Lisa was exorbitantly long and unsurprisingly enough, no one was actually stopping to look at da Vinci’s famed smile, they were looking at her through tiny screens. Beyond the Louvre lies the Tuileries Garden, beautiful but sparse as the spring just begins to set in. And from there it’s a short walk to Notre Dame along the banks of the Seine. While Notre Dame was closed due to the unfortunate fire, we got to see the beautiful St. Chapelle.

St. Chapelle was the royal chapel on the Ilé de la Cité consecrated in the year 1248 and considered to be the height of Gothic architecture, but it’s main claim to fame is the magnitude of stained glass windows. The colors range from glassy carmines to translucent gold and deep, deep azures, all splaying a rainbow-tinted light show on the floor.

Parisian weather, not unlike London weather, can change in the blink of an eye. It went from sunny to cloudy to pouring within a few hours. Julia and I were soaked through. And the next morning we woke to still, thundering raindrops outside our window and dreary grey skies. We had to choose activities that wouldn’t get us wet, and so we very wisely chose Sacré Coeur (this would perhaps epitomize face-palm moments).

The Basilica was built by the French as a symbol of Catholic repentance. It lies above the city, in the quiet, colorful streets of Montmartre. The view is brilliant on an ordinary day, and on a rainy one, the city gets a foggy air of mystery. The Basilica gives off an Italian vibe which is unsurprising given the Roman-Byzantine style of architecture that’s used to construct it. The insides are filled with lovely stained glass windows and an impressive organ, the silence is generous and holds a separate sort of eloquence and peace. It is in itself a voice. We got to the Basilica around 8 am and had the entire spot to ourselves for a good hour and a half, where we enjoyed the view, looked around, and then decided to climb to the top. When you go to Sacré Coeur and climb to the top, you need to be prepared for a long climb, narrow and steep steps made of slick stone. And when it’s raining, the steps turn slippery and it feels at one point, like you’re crawling across the roof. I was splayed against the wall moving inch by inch as Julia basically ran up the stone steps waiting patiently at intervals for me to catch up. But even on rainy days and despite the horrific climb, the view from the top of Sacre Coeur is breath-taking. It holds its own kind of magic, foggy and dreary grey magic, but it’ll seem more enchanting if you aren’t scared of heights, or perhaps more accurately – don’t suffer from the fear of falling. Once we had made the perilous climb back down to Earth we hopped a cab to Rue De Rivoli and got an early morning, no waiting in line table at Angelina Cafe.

The hype around the cafe is understandable given the divine quality of the food. The coffee is dark and rich, the hot chocolate so thick it’s almost a sauce. The lemon and raspberry macarons burst with tart flavor and the croissant sandwiches are fresh and aromatic. The presentation is done in a very dainty, rustic style. It was the best meal we had on the trip, though that can be attributed to me given that in my rush to do everything I barely stopped for food and didn’t let Julia either.

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From there we made our way to the Musee D’orsay through the drizzly lanes of Paris, something out of a montage. The museum is a beautiful structure. It used to be an old train station and the interior architecture is a thing of beauty. The museum also houses a lot of impressionist artwork from the 19th century, but the true beauty is the architecture. That is perhaps a point to be contested but it was the best part of the museum for me.

Street markets are always a fun thing to do and Parisian street markets are filled with colorful character. Marché des Enfants Rouge is a market dating back to the 15th century. It’s bursting at the seams with all kinds of cuisines and small variety of flower shops. Bread of every kind, that the bakers tear apart in front of you, crackles as it breaks apart both visually and audibly. Wheels of cheese carved into intricate designs and elegant samples displayed on small trays. Whole fish ogling people in a deadened stare as you walk by. Pastries with crumbly bases coat your fingers with buttery flakes and ganaches that melt on your tongue, explosive with flavor. The scent of fresh potatoes, garlic butter, meat swirling around in aromatic smoke as they are cooked for the many patrons thronging this haunt of Paris. The artwork on the boards of different stands jumps out at you in colorful exuberance. There’s something small for everyone. We purchased a slice of lemon tart that glowed so bright it looked like it had been cut from the sun itself.

The neighborhood around the market is less historic and more modern. The shops are small and are mostly vintage clothing (much to Julia’s delight). The storefronts are faded and the walls in places are covered with what can perhaps be described as existentialist street art. The interiors however are loud, with racks of clothes and fur-covered loungers for husbands of shoppers (or for me while Jules shopped), music pulsates across the air as men and women shop through the area.

The day ended with a spectacular sunset at the Pont Neuf. The sky was like a piece of artwork. The river rippled below tranquil, broken only in spells when boats filled with deafening party-goers crossed underneath. The sky was dark and cloudy save for a sliver of brilliant sun, that tinted the whole thing dazzling orange. Every sunset in Paris is an enchanting experience. The bridge is filled with romancing couples and street singers and artists who give accompanying violin or accordion music. Aside from the effulgent fire streaking across the skies everything seems to fall under the greys of a 50’s film until it is engulfed by the deep black of the night shimmering with the starry Tour Eiffel. It was the perfect end to the day.

Having learned my lesson from the mind-numbingly terrifying climb up to the dome of Sacré Coeur, the moment I saw the sky filled with sunshine the next morning, I donned my beret and did the 20-yard walk to the Arch so I could climb it and see the view, while the steps were dry. The steps are much wider than the narrow inclined ones at the Basilica but higher. The climb requires stamina (in which, sadly – I am severely lacking). I reached the top, heaving great breaths trying to gulp air and take in the magnificence of Paris around me. It’s a city at a lessened height than the Basilica and the Eiffel Tower, but very much worth it. You see in greater detail the lives of everyday Parisians walking the streets like ants, dots in the distance on their balconies and in their homes. It’s like seeing local life in Paris through an aerial lense. The Arch also happens to be a brilliant spot to live near given that you can take the Hop On Hop Off Bus from there. The bus is a brilliant way to see Paris. You get to see the city and you can get off and on where and when you like. We took the red route through the main city and then the blue on the outer lines which takes you through the red light district of Pigalle where Julia was scandalized by the number of stores displaying lingerie and very graphic sex toys and through Montmartre, where the streets are charmingly cobbled and unsatisfyingly quiet. Here the buildings are painted in charming pastels and the cafes have outdoor seating which are filled by locals and tourists chatting, eating, and smoking cigars. Here’s the catch – the blue line on our bus didn’t have any commentary. We sat looking out waiting to alight the bus at Montmartre and explore while the bus drummed out a string of Parisian classical music the most prominent being the supremely irritating ‘Aux Champs-Elysées’ sung in a high pitched nasal tune. Fifty minutes later we were back where we started on the red line, absolutely baffled as to how we had been so obtuse as to miss our stop. We had to do the entire journey on the blue line, again to get off at the right stop and then a third time on our way back to the red line. By the time we got back from our multiple joy rides on the blue line, evening had settled over the city and the insipid sky blue turned into a greying aqua. Julia and I walked from the Le Marais near the Cathedrale Notre Dame all the way to the Eiffel Tower. Here having been forewarned by the great Indian being that is my mother to be wary of pick-pockets I shed my backpack and any other non-essentials and left them with Julia who would wait in a nearby cafe while I went up. Here’s the thing – the view is a masterpiece, the sunset is breath-taking and disasters follow me wherever I go. My phone which had been at 70% when I went up crashed after the first few pictures and when I got it back to working the battery was at an earth-shattering 1%. And I had absolutely no idea where Julia was waiting, no way to call an Uber to get home and no idea how to get out of the mess I was evidently in. But at the top of the tower, I was, and that experience would not go to waste. So I watched the sun set over the city in a panoramic display trying not to panic. Once night had fallen and I made my way down I risked a text to Julia asking her where she was and receiving a prompt response. I told her the predicament I was in and then saw the screen go black as the battery tragically died. No google maps, no idea of where the restaurant was, and no clue what Julia was going to do. I headed back the way we walked where there were a number of small restaurants, sprinting to meet Julia and miraculously found the tiny cafe she mentioned.

“My friend!” I gasped, my lack of stamina rearing its ugly head once again. “My friend was here! Polish, brown-haired girl.” I said hunched over trying to catch some air. The waiter, an old man looked at me with a small smile and said “Ah yes! She just left, to look for her friend.” I looked at him in dismay. “Don’t worry!” he said handing me a charger and a glass of water. “Wait five minutes for it to charge. Then call her! And if you can’t find her we will call the police.” waving it off as if this was an everyday occurrence. When I called Julia a few minutes later she was looking for me at the entrance of the tower, also gasping for breath. Our paths had crossed in our mad dash towards each other and we probably didn’t even realize it. It was an anxious night for both of us which now fills us with hysterical laughter. “I went to every security guard to ask about you!” Julia exclaimed when she made her way back to the cafe slumping across me handing me my backpack heavy with a charging wire and two battery packs. We sat there waiting to see the tower light up at the end of the hour with a shower of twinkling lights. And the view and the company of Julia perhaps made the whole ordeal worth all the trouble. Tired by our many rides across the blue line and the constant test to my physical education abilities, I printed out our tickets for Disneyland the next day, set the alarm, and tried to rest.

When I awoke at 6 am, I got dressed, donned sneakers rather than boots, and then woke Julia and we went down for breakfast before we caught the train to the amusement park. Just as we were about to step out of the hotel to reach the park early I opened the ticket to check everything was in order and noticed that I had read the wrong times and we were about to leave four hours too early. Sheepishly I turned to Julia who was rummaging through her purse to return the large room key to the receptionist, when I told her what had happened she simply went still, and then hunched over and began to laugh. So we went back up to our rooms, slept a bit longer, and then left for Disneyland when the sun was actually shining. It seemed like it would go off without a hitch when we exited and saw the large pink castle framed against the sky, a charming picture. We pressed our metro tickets to the scanners at the exit so the small booths would open and let us out. They beeped red. Over and over again. I was stumped. These were brand new metro tickets that had received a clear green beep when we left from Avenue Mac Mahon. Why wouldn’t these tickets let us out? We were quite stuck. So unknowingly we pressed a large red button at the handicap scanner and tried to explain our problem in English. The person on the other end didn’t understand and the doors simply flew open and we fled out of the station. Had I known then what I know now, I would probably never had the guts to do it. It turns out you have to buy a different sort of metro ticket to get to Disneyland and the normal ones just won’t suffice. The penalty of course is some much cherished time in the slammer and an exorbitant 90 euro fine. Having gotten away with it, I can walk with a little swagger in my step now, because I can claim to have broken a law in another country.

Here’s the thing about Disneyland, if you’re not a kid, the magic sort of disappears. You have to be a fan of the vomit-inducing roller coasters to have the most amount of fun, which Julia was and I, was not. We did all the rides, Julia the more scary ones, and I did the lighter ones, unable to contain my derisive laughter when we got to the Magic Tea Cups. Julia did manage to get me onto a ride Crush Coaster, named after the turtles in Finding Nemo, where I screamed continuously for the entire minute and a half without pausing to draw a breath. Julia didn’t even have a chance to scream she was laughing too hard at my one, lengthy, never-ending, high pitched scream that evidently scared the six-year-old behind us. There’s a tiny catch, to truly enjoy the best part of Disneyland – the theatrics in the parade and the jaw-dropping fireworks, you should stay at the Park’s resort. There’s not much to do once you’ve done the rides and not much food to eat on a budget that isn’t sugary waffles and mozzarella sticks. We were tired and the wait for the 10 pm fireworks seemed never-ending. Nevertheless it was worth it. Magnificent colors lit up the sky in explosive displays, song and waterworks and fiery infernos of colors sweep you away in the magic you probably felt as a kid that seemed missing from the park throughout the day.

It was a good experience, but not something I would repeat. And if you ask Julia, I’m sure you’ll get a far funnier and darker response.

Our final day started early, with timed entry into the Palace of Versailles, and this time our alarms didn’t go off and we awoke a bit too late. It was a mad dash through train station after train station, making sure to this time, purchase the correct metro ticket. We raced to the final train and watched the glass doors close without us behind them. It was a comical moment as I tried to get the doors to open in despair and watched the train leave without us.

When we got to the Palace, Julia did a bit of pleading, flashed a student ID and we were in. It almost felt like a waste to buy the ticket at all. Versailles perhaps defines French opulence in a way no other monument or relic of French royalty can. Gold and gilded edges, intricate gardens, multiple stone fountains, silk and velvet, rainbow tints in each different room. Creams and ivories, tangerines and sunshine, emerald and limes, violets and lavender, rose and salmon. Each room served a purpose, some that seem exceedingly inane now and some that make some modicum of sense. The gardens were so large that we tired just walking through them in the search for the musical fountains at one point splitting up. As I walked in circles looking for the fountain shows I espied a figure sunbathing on the bench a familiar purse under her head. On closer inspection it was Jules, napping peacefully like a cat on a sunny day, too tired to look for the fountains anymore. It seemed like an apt solution until we realized that there was a shuttle that could take us from place to place within the palace grounds.

When we got back to Paris we got off the train at the Tower, ate dinner at the Cafe where we first lost each other, and then walked all the way to the Pont Alexander III to watch the tower light up. It was the perfect end to the trip, listening to La Vie En Rose and singing loudly and rather badly as we watched the very emblem of Paris glow gold across the Seine.

This trip, is in a way, my love letter to Paris. It marked me with memories of our madness and I marked it with the same, my footsteps against the cobblestone roads, my terrible singing in the air of the Pont Neuf, my fingerprints at Ladureé and Angelina. It was a dream that came true to be there experiencing spring in the city with one of my favorite people. The glamour and glitz, the history, and the adventure all culminated to press very fond memories of this trip against my mind and heart. It was an experience that had all the essential elements to help someone grow, humor, friendship, awe, and a splash of crazy. Or as many have argued, a steady waterfall of crazy. And if I had to do it all again, to see the city for the first time again, I would choose to do it all exactly the same way. To find Paris the way I did, on this trip or not at all. And that is perhaps the best romance, the city could have given me.

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