Traveling to foreign countries is always a mind-altering experience. You know? Seriously? Forget lighting up, tuning in and tuning out or turning on or whatever they called it in the Sixties. If you live in America, traveling outside of this country will blow your mind.

Because it all happened in a blurry dream state, I barely remember the past 24 hours. I know that we woke up at 3am in Los Angeles and drove to LAX, parked in a reliable airport parking spot which shuttles you to the airport. I know that they dropped us off at the Delta terminal but that it was the wrong terminal and so we had to roll our baggage half way around the airport (“It’s just about a five to seven walk. I do it on my lunch break every day.”) to Alaska Air, which partners with Delta. I know we waited about 45 minutes to check-in and get on board. This, because of heightened security measures which did not let you check things in automatically.

An instragram shot of Alaska Air's check-in line

I know that we then flew to Seattle, where we had about a four layover. We wandered around that giant airport — which has its own subway system — and I know, at some point, I used their free wi-fi. I know that we got on the plane there, Air France this time, and flew seven hours to Paris. I know that we had our neck pillows and our eye covers and our blankets. I know I tried to sleep that whole time but really just laid there, with my eyes closed.

Emma looking like a prisoner of war

I know that, at some point, they began serving breakfast. Somehow we would get to Paris, wait in two more very long lines before finally getting on a plane to beautiful, peaceful, extraordinary Nice. And we would rent a car and get lost driving around the hills behind Nice. We would drive a long time before realizing we were lost. We would find ourselves on toll roads with no euro, having to use the intercom to speak to the workers to explain in English (which none of them speak) why we had no euros. What morons they must have thought we were. One guy just let us through without paying. An alarm went off. I hope I don’t get charged a fine.

But through all of this, a running dialogue is going on in my head as I explain to my daughter yet again why I am making yet another stupid person mistake: “This is how you learn things,” I said. “You make a mistake and you learn something.” And it’s true. We keep learning things as if we’re headed for some kind of plateau of knowledge – because THEN, maybe then we will have figured it all out. Only to then die. Yes, life. Ah, life.

Painted nails and nearly black hair - ready for Cannes

She looked at me like she felt sorry for me. Poor mom. Someday she’ll realize how cool I am. Right? Right? Kids are funny when they travel. They always want to come until they actually start realizing what a hassle it is. Things are made so comfortable for Americans. We really are like those soft, chubby passengers on that giant cruiser in the sky in Wall-E. Just hook us up and take our money.

But when you travel to other countries you see that it’s so not about you, especially here in France in parts that don’t cater to American tourists. I keep saying “je suis Americaine!” as if it’s some excuse as to why I’m so clueless. They just blink back at me: “And I’m supposed to care because…?” In America we are mostly raised to respect the almighty dollar. That’s really what customer service is all about. You know they can’t really treat you that badly because it will cost them in the end. In France and Italy, the two foreign countries I’ve traveled in most, they don’t give a crap about that. They appreciate your politeness more. It’s hard to get your mind around. In America, it’s backwards: the customer is always right. Here, it’s more like, the nicer you are the better service you will get. Act like an entitled American and be prepared to have people treat you poorly.

It is surreal.

Today is officially the first day here. We will drive from Juan Les Pins, where we ended up staying, to Cannes proper, where I will fight the crowds for a parking spot, then walk into the Palais du Festival. The South of France, the coast near Cannes, has many beautiful villages. Like Italy, there are those the tourists flock to and those the tourists don’t yet know about. All up and down the coast — except Cannes and places that everyone already knows — you can find the prettiest, quietest, sweetest little French towns. And those are really what France is all about, I dare say. I am acting as though I’m an expert when in fact, this is my third visit to France and two out of three of those times I was only in the tourist areas. Now we’re staying in Juan Les Pins, which really doesn’t have many Americans. The reason being, most people who comes to the Cannes Film Fest prefer to stay within walking distance. Now that I’ve rented a car, I know the reason why: it’s god-awfully expensive.

For the amount of money the car cost, plus the hotel, we could have stayed in one of the expensive hotels close to La Croisette. Oh well: live and learn. Make mistakes, lots of them, and then learn more.

Onward and upward. Day One.

Before I dive into the Field of Greens cookbook (read: it will never happen), I thought I’d take a stab at posting some pics of a dinner I cooked for my dad last week. My dad likes to eat almost anything. It’s always great to cook for people who will eat anything because that means one is never pressured to be the best at anything. And, try as I might, I am a B average cook at best. Maybe even a C average. This isn’t to say that I’m a bad cook (well, erm) but just that there are so many better cooks out there, and when it comes to food blogging — I have pretty much sucked at it.

One thing that is hard to screw up is authentic ragu. I learned how to make it on my first trip to Italy (yeah, the one where I got knocked up – maybe Ragu is the reason why). Emma’s father Luca makes the best Ragu. In fact, he is the son of two great chefs, his mother and his dearly departed father. I think I made it clear that we broke up upon my return to the states and I have raised Emma as a single parent. Hard. Not as hard as having more than one kid and doing it alone, but it is hard anyway.

Luca’s mother cooks the best food I have ever had – and that includes all of the great restaurants in Italy and France. She once made a tomato sauce using cherry tomatoes that blew my mother fucking mind.

Anyway, so the reason I made this Ragu was because I still had some left over ground meat that my mother gave me – it is organic, farm-raised beef that belonged to a friend of hers. Ground beef – there are lots of things to do with ground beef – burgers, tacos, shepherd’s pie…but ragu has the benefit of tomato sauce, which is very good for you. And my dad tends to like that kind of stuff since my grandmother used to make him great meals, including spaghetti and meatballs.

Anyway, so it’s easy to make ragu but you have to be patient. There are lots of different variations – some people use milk, some use nutmeg, some use just onions, or garlic and onions. Here is how I did it.

1 lb of ground beef
Two cans of crushed tomatoes
1 onion
1 head of garlic
nutmeg
salt & pepper
basil

I don’t think basil is used to make traditional ragu, but mine needed it at the end. I think that next time I will use a different combination of tomato — maybe some sauce, some paste. Mine didn’t have that great flavor like Luca’s did this time. I have made it better in the past.

Here’s the thing. You brown the onions, then brown the meat. Add some grated nutmeg if you want. Here is where I added the garlic, which is optional. You then add the tomato sauce (whatever combo you decide) and here’s is the key – you simmer it on low for at least two hours. Seriously. When it’s done, the tomato sauce had reduced to the most delicious, concentrated stuff you’ve ever tasted. And the thing is, it coats the pasta because it is oily and concentrated at the same time. So it doesn’t slip off the noodles, but rather gently coats them.

Salt the noodle water.

By the way, I started off the meal with roasted shrimp to be eaten with cocktail sauce — olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper — a squeeze of lemon. Roast for about ten minutes or so until just pink. I think I cooked it at 350. Pictured above.

For dessert for my dad I made some blueberry compote. It was all quite good. Not perfect, but good enough.

All of the years I’ve been reading about the Cannes film fest and no one ever mentioned that there are little sparrows roaming around, setting up camp, and pestering the passengers before.

As I left very early Thursday morning, en route to Germany and then back to Los Angeles (more on that marathon flight in a moment) I caught the sunrise at the Nice Airport and declared it to be the prettiest airport I’d ever sat in. The thing about Europeans is that they do everything just a bit nicer than we do it here. There is much to love about being here in Los Angeles – my creature comforts are within a five mile radius – coffee, yoga, Whole Foods – but the quality of life overall seems, to me, nicer in parts of France and Italy. How can I explain it?

Like this sculpture just a-sitting there in the terminal. One can’t believe it.

Sunrise at the Nice airport was something to behold. The whole terminal seemed designed for beauty – the sea, the mountains, the sky. Oh, and I really learned the value of being the early bird because if you can get there earliest you can select a better seat. If you arrive late, you have to take what they have left.

Birds soared right and left, and would bravely land on my table, knowing they might get a crumb or two.

Some might be inclined to consider them unsightly or germ spreaders – but to me they were little bursts of life. And I needed it at 6am. I’d woken up at 4am and lugged my bags down my hobbit stairs at the B&B I was staying in. I could have taken the train and then a cab from the Nice station – but frankly, lugging my bag up and down the stairs was a horrific prospect at 4am, so I just dropped $100 on a cab.

This turned out to be the best choice as I was there easily and early and mostly sweat free.

You never want to be behind me in the security line, trust me, especially this time. I was wearing boots, which meant I had to pull them off each time. But it wasn’t just boots, it was:

Laptop out of bag
Purse
Camera bag
Scarf
Laptop bag
Boots
Coat

So, all told, around four or five treys. Not a pretty picture. Each time I was certain I would forget something. But I didn’t lose a damned thing – not a ticket, not a boarding pass, not a key – I remembered it all.

When I finally lugged all of my shit to the terminal to hunker down until my 7:45am flight, I was relieved to see that bright, pastel sunrise – an impressionist’s inspiration if ever there was one.

Being at Cannes is like uncorking a bottle of champagne. It maybe spills over a little bit, tastes sweet and pungent. You feel like you’re a part of a party just because you’re drinking it. It is cause for celebration and yet it is its own thing. I feel out of sorts in a way, but in another way, totally at home. I could do this permanently. Well, if it weren’t for the fact that I miss my child too much. That is the part of it I don’t like so much.

I have spent many days away from Los Angeles and California and I always find myself not just coming back – but anguishing over not being around my own cozy little corner of the world. I have Los Angeles in my biology somehow and that too is a fact.

I am sitting in my room at my affordable, charming B&B at 4am because, typically, jet lag hits the second day. I just can’t sleep. So I figured I’d sit up, turn on the light and use the quiet, coffee-less hours to get some work done. These are long days, covering the Cannes film fest. Long days, clockless, timeless days. I came in at midnight and so that means I’ve had four hours of sleep, if that. Part of the problem is that someone came through the upstairs and made lots of noise, waking me up. Once up, I couldn’t drift back down.
There is this sense here that nothing else is important except what’s going on at the fest right now. And what’s going on is an international conclave of filmmakers, press, publicists, sponsors, and a lot of people who exist on the fringe of that – those beautiful people who staff events and couldn’t work their gigs without looking the way they do. They are the cream of the crop for their line of hospitality.

These are impossibly pretty women with legs so long they really do resemble the stems of roses and are rooted in vases in the forms of spiky heels. The one thing no one ever says about Cannes is that it’s full of beautiful women and pick-pockets.

The French here are kind and smily. At first I thought I would be embarrassed by being a smiling Californian. You usually smile in LA and no one thinks anything of it – in fact, it’s weird if you don’t exchange smiles when passing someone. In Italy, for example, or in Paris, no one exchanges smiles so if you do it you look like you’re some sad, aging hooker coming on to a passer-by. In my case, they look at me like I’m nuts.

But here in Cannes people do smile back. Not only that but I’ve been addressed loudly by two separate people driving by in cars. One young girl yelled out the window, “Bon Soir!” And another saw my camera and said “click click click.” Could it be possible that they mistake me for an actual Cannes photographer? I could think of no other reason why they would shout at me.

It’s a ludicrous notion that I would be confused for a photographer. The sizes of the cameras on the paparazzi are insane. After photo calls on the red carpet they flood the Orange Wifi cafe (the coolest place in Cannes, in my opinion) and they set about fixing and cropping their photos and then uploading them, soaking up much of the wifi and bandwidth. C’est d’accord. They need to do it. If there is anything media people flock to it’s photos of the stars on the red carpet. I’m here at the fest and I’m not up on who has been here and what they were wearing.

There isn’t a lot of time to sit and browse the web as I’d do if I were home. One has to be someplace so one tends to sit, write and post and then unplug. It’s completely different from the way I do my work, and live my life, at home in Los Angeles.

The wifi cafe has free coffee, water, and places to plug in your computer. If only there were more of these places all over the cities in the world. They have wifi cafes in other places but they just aren’t as prepared or equipped as the Orange folks.

Wifi is a luxury and one must never take it for granted.

This morning, I will trek back down the hill for the 8:30am showing of some movie. I am hoping to be surprised by something. One thing I really love about this fest is that it’s reminding me of how it used to feel to love movies unconditionally – to love them whether they were successful or not, whether they were Oscar movies or not. Cannes is many things – it’s extravagant, slightly trashing in some ways, somewhat cheesy – but I’ve never been to a place that has such a high regard for great cinema, no matter what era it hails from. You gotta love the French.

This came from Howard Stern’s radio show, posted by someone over at ONTD:

While listening to Rosie Radio this morning Howard Stern popped in for a little surprise talk and they got on the subject of Brad and Angelina. Howard said that they are no longer together and Rosie asked Howard if he actually knew that or was just going off of the tabloids and Howard said the he knows that. Rosie asked how and he said that he knows people and knows things and that he can pretty much say for sure that they are no longer together.

Howard said that even though Angelina Jolie is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen that Brad should have known better since Billy Bob Thorton, a man who has a fear of antiques and only eats orange food, said that she had too many problems for him.

So there ya go. Howard Stern is a pretty honest guy and I believe pretty much everything that comes out of his mouth.

I hope it isn’t true. Maybe they’re just taking a break from each other. But all those kids – relationships have a hard time staying healthy when just one kid comes along, but that many kids in that many years?

Their relationship, as lived through our eyes, moment by moment, picture by picture, detail by details, seemed like a fantasy. The births in Africa, the flying lessons, the international adoptions, the twins, the animal-noises sex, the big house in France, the sexy photos for W magazines, the red carpet displays of affection – that yellow dress at Cannes. It was a moment for our time – and why is it poor old Brad Pitt is always the guy who has the girl and they become the couple that defines our time?

A trip down memory lane:

I don’t know why it’s taking me so long to finish up my Paris trip. Maybe because I can linger on those days before I totally store it away in my memory for the long term. The one really strong memory I’ll have from Paris, and believe me, I already want to go back, is one night Emma and I stayed in the Hotel Foundary and watched Shakespeare in Love in its entirety. We found it on YouTube and watched one part after another in the dark hotel room. It was really great – and I can’t quite pinpoint why it was great – it had nothing to do with Paris particularly. We had one more day and we were wiped out in all possible ways. That was why we chose to hang out in the hotel instead of walking all over the place.

However, there were two places we wanted and needed to see. One was the Catacombs and the other was the Montparnasse cemetery. I wouldn’t want to live in Montparnasse – I like the other side of Paris better, over by the Marais and the Pompidou.

We decided to brave the Metro for the first time to get to the Catacombs and seriously, the Metro is a lot easier than you think. But you can’t bumble around like a dumbass – you have to kind of know what you’re doing. We wasted two tickets going to the wrong side but figured out our mistake the hard way. Once you get it you get it and it isn’t that bad, but god help you if you try to talk to any of the metro workers. The thing about people in Europe in general – they don’t care about you. But it’s especially true in France. They don’t care if you’re having a problem – it is not their problem. That aspect of European travel ALWAYS makes me feel better to be American. I tried to explain one problem I was having to one of the women working behind the glass but she brushed me off with a wave of her hand and a disgusted nod.

I really wanted to leave Paris. I thought I had mistakenly purchased a book of Metro tickets instead of one ticket – turns out I hadn’t but I thought I had. I guess I’m just used to American customer service where they give a damn because it makes a difference to their business. In France, health care is taken care of, wage is decent enough – there is no real competition so why bother?

Eventually, after a few transfers we found ourselves in Montparnasse proper and we headed to the Catacombs. The line was too long but we waited anyway. We wanted our last day in Paris to be easy-ish with just one or two things to see. This seemed like the perfect thing to do. We had a couple of loudmouthed Americans behind us talking as if they were the only people who existed. And I suddenly could relate to the Parisiennes hatred of us.

While we waited in line I went and got us a hot dog – one of those great Paris hot dogs with the hot mustard. Oh, those are almost worth the trip back for. Although there are so many things in Paris that call my name, even now.

Once inside the Catacombs you walk down an endless spiral staircase – down and down and down and down. It gets darker and colder and damper. You’re kind of grateful for the crowd because you know if your heart stops suddenly there are people to help you out. You walk a bit before you get to the bones and then it’s just wall upon wall of skulls and bones. It definitely puts one’s existence into perspective the way cemetery’s don’t; this isn’t about honoring an individual life – this is about how many people have come before, lived, had their little dramas and heartbreaks, minor successes, diseases and whatnot, and then died and became bones in a pile.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, although it had one upside: it was the only place in Paris so far that did not smell like piss.

Upon our exit, we decided to get a good street crepe, as opposed to the touristy kind. We found one at a small booth in Montparnasse – I got the orange and honey and Emma got the Nutella and banana (that is the one to get). They were delicious, even if they did drip all over us.

Afterwards, we wandered down to the cemetery, but to be perfectly honest, our feet could not take anymore walking. That was that for us. We hobbled over to Jean Paul Sartre’s grave, snapped a photo and then called it a day.

We got up very early, like 4am, in order to take our metro to the airport. We opted out of the Bee Shuttle because it had been so expensive the ride in. It was trippy but doable, lugging our suitcases down the cool streets of Paris, sans coffee, down the stairs and occasionally up the stairs. A nice gentleman helped us up one flight of stairs. There are kind people everywhere, you just have to be lucky enough to bump into one.

We finally got to the airport but we knew Emma’s passport had been lost there and was in the Lost and Found somewhere. We were told that it didn’t open until after 9am and our flight was to leave around 10am. Emma burst into tears after Security managed to get the Lost and Found opened but alas, no passport. Eventually we just went to our airline and they had her passport all along.

We boarded our plane and without incident, as in “international incident” we were flying out of Paris. Paris is the place of our sweetest dreams, even still. The longer the time between from then and now, the more we mature and grow, our memories filter out the stuff that made the beautiful city agonizing. And all that remains is that unending beauty. Paris captured my heart. I know I will be back there sooner rather than later. And I don’t even care that Paris doesn’t love me back. It’s an unrequited love and that isn’t the worst thing in the world.

The next thing to happen would be three connecting flights on our way back to LA – Paris to Milan, Milan to London, London to Los Angeles.

It isn’t easy conjuring up day two now that I’m back at home in the US. What I do remember is that we left our hotel around 10am and didn’t return until 10:30pm, with every bone in our bodies aching from walking and all of the activity. We really did try to wring out every bit of fun we possibly could, even if fun for an eleven year old is very different than fun for a 44 year-old (or am I forty-five? I can’t even remember anymore, I feel 38).

The second day we were determined to get up inside the Eiffel Tower. Well, Emma was – I haplessly tagged along, playing the role of what would ordinarily be the good time father type. Me, I’m not so into taking cramped elevators to the top of anything – I am afraid of heights, for one thing. I hate crowds and I am not big on touristy things either. But if you take a kid to Paris, by God, you’ll do the touristy things. I was trying to make it as fun as possible for her knowing that hanging around with the person she spends most of her time with isn’t going to be that fun — and we had our spats, believe me. I kind of ran it the way I’ve run her entire life – helping her build lasting memories, even if she hates it a bit along the way.

We woke up as early as possible, showered in our tiny little shower with the broken glass door (nice and hot at the Hotel Fondary, however, and lest we forget the free wi-fi). We went down to the lobby in hopes of seeing our little friend the cat who lives at the hotel. He’s a furry calico and very affectionate. We nicknamed him “other kitty” because Emma and I spend much of our time talking about our cats — it’s just the one thing we talk about more than anything else. Other Kitty was a nice substitute since our two darling ones were at home still.

We skipped the hotel breakfast — which is 9 euros for bread and coffee — and went to the bakery down the block. Coffee, hot chocolate and two croissants ended up at less than 10 euros. A better deal for sure, better food and probably better coffee, although it’s tough to find a bad cup of coffee in Paris. Or anywhere in Italy, for that matter.

Tipping was a problem for me in France. Sometimes it’s included, other times it isn’t. I think I wasted money tipping people because I wasn’t sure. And they’re not going to turn down the money either, especially not from an American. Paris is beautiful and rich with art and culture but I think, in general, the people kind of fit the stereotype of the rude Parisian.

After our delicious breakfast we headed down what would become our usual walk to the Eiffel tower. Walking in that cool, clean air on a spectacularly clear day was, I hear, an exceptional way to see Paris, which tends to be cloudy and rainy much of the time. It was one of the best feelings, to feel that clean air and walk on those streets. Nothing opens that early, weirdly enough. After lunch is when all of the shops open – I guess Paris is much more of a nighttime city.

Once we got to the Eiffel tower we saw that it was as crowded as it always is. We decided to get in line and take our chances. Unfortunately for Emma, they closed the top level due to overcrowding. We waited for an hour to get to the front of the line and were to take the the “lift” up to the second level – after that we were allowed to buy tickets to the top floor if we wanted, another hour’s wait. One we got to the second level, we took a bunch of pics and decided not to go to the top. One has to cut one’s losses and make decisions that aren’t always perfect. With so few days in Paris, spending all of our second day trying to get to the top of the Eiffel tower seemed like a waste of time. Emma was disappointed and angry, of course.

We had our lunch up there — not cheap but cheaper than any restaurant. We had a hot dog, frites, crepes and coffee. The hot dog was good because of the spicy mustard I put on mine. The crepes were MEH. We’d have better crepes later. Emma bought a few things for her friends at the little shop and back down we went. After that, we thought we’d get the boat shuttle and see some of the museums. We would do the Musee d’Orsay this day because we knew it was huge and would require a lot of time. We bought a two-day pass for the boat shuttle and headed on up to the museum.

If you haven’t been there, it must be your first stop on the museum tour. The Musee d’Orsay is beautiful inside and out — it will bring to your knees with its beauty. As you move from room to room, you can’t decide whether it is the building or the art that is the most breathtaking. We strolled up and down, even with already tired legs and hurt feet. Van Gogh, Degas. Emma decided Degas was her favorite painter because of the ballerinas. She’s obsessed with two things lately: ballet and piano playing – partly because her friends at school already do either one or the other or both, but partly because they fascinate her for whatever reason.

Her spending money from her aunt Vanna (very kind of her) afforded her a chance to buy two small silk ballet toes shoes and those were her favorite thing throughout the entire trip.

After the Musee d’Orsay, we crossed the bridge to Jardin de Tuileries, hung out for a while and then went looking for an ATM. In so doing, we inadvertently ended up walking down the Rue de Rivoli. It’s full of upscale shops and cafes but no ATMs. We kept wandering and wandering until at last, down some side street we found one. In the touristy areas you’re more likely to find a money exchange place than an ATM and believe me, the money exchange place will rape your wallet. Stick with the ATM. They charge a fee but I don’t think it’s as much as the exchange fee.

With a little more money in our pockets we found ourselves at the Angelina Tea room. A bitchy French waitress pretended to be helpful when I was trying to ask if food was included with the tea. It wasn’t so Emma got a little strawberry parfait and we each got a small pot of tea. It was pretty, we felt out of place and weird. Some poor American single man was seated directly next to us (let’s lump all of the Americans together) and he said, “can I sit over there?” And he was moved. Emma and I chuckled to ourselves. Jeez, sitting next to us wasn’t that bad. It was a sucky place for him to sit, however. The French don’t seem to mind being elbow to elbow — we Americans kind of hate it. We having our individualist bubble pierced by anyone else.

(NOT MY PHOTO)

Afterwards I bought two bags of hot chocolate mix, which is supposed to be famous (we’ll see). One for my sister and one for us. We sampled some of their macarons, as I’ve always wanted to try macarons. They’re very good, a little too sweet for my taste. I would suggest the coffee flavored one, though, if you want to try them.

We headed back to the Jardin de Tuileries where we decided to ride the carousel. It was a frightening experience for both of us – this is where I admit I’m not the world’s best person to travel with. I’m a complainer, in a sense, and I’m a coward. I hate heights, as I said, and carousels are probably my least favorite thing. This no doubt, rubbed off on Emma. She’s usually not afraid of such things but suddenly, the height got to her. It was an incredible view on the top but it was high and scary. What can one say, that’s the bitter truth.

After that, we got back on the boat shuttle (I think) and went to Notre Dame to check that out. They were having service so we weren’t really allowed to wander around. We did attempt to sit for the service out of respect but it was so hot in there and the incense was intense. Intense incense. We’re also not religious, so there’s that.

It is a gorgeous cathedral, however. The best thing we saw in that area, though, was a band of wild cats living on the grounds.

Then we wandered the backstreets up to La Marais area – the old Jewish quarter that is now a trendy hot spot. It’s really great. Crowded but great, especially if you’re a young single person. We found a little cafe there and had our only really nice dinner. The night before’s dinner at a bistro was delicious too – Emma had a hard time chewing her nearly raw steak. This dinner was much more palatable for her – salmon with scalloped potatoes. I had a whole seabass. We had the cheese plate for dessert and she had creme brulee. It was our most expensive and our nicest dinner. We loved that place – had a conversation with a kind Parisian gentlemen who said that his fellow townspeople were awful and that we were lucky they were all out of town and at the beach.

After our delicious dinner with our great staff (they’re from the South of France, according to my dinner pal, and that was why they were so funny and nice), we took a stroll over the bridge that joins the two isles and we sat to watch some street musicians. That was a moment in Paris I’ll never forget. Sunset, good music, wine still lingering in my nerve endings.

We then caught our bus shuttle back to to the Eiffel Tower where we then walked back to our hotel. It was probably our loveliest evening in Paris.