city of lights, week one

A few weeks ago Kevin (aka The Boyfriend) and I flew from our respective countries of residence and met up in the city of romance. We stayed in the red light district with the Sacre Coeur and the Sexodrome looming in the distance.

Highlights included marveling at Notre Dame, a photo shoot at the Eiffel Tower and snacking on the most ridiculous looking pastries we could find. We worked the calories off by taking the metro only once a day and walking among many arrondisements (sections of the city) on any given day, and strolling down the fantastically lit up Champs Elysees. We drank wine and ate cheese until our stomachs hurt and made not very intelligent comments in museums. Unfortunately, yes, we were that American couple cocking their heads to the side and saying, “that’s weird,” about an incredibly famous painting or sculpture about which we knew nothing.

We vowed that the next trip we take will not end in a good-bye and plane rides to opposite sides of the world… “Inshallah,” I say. (“God willing,” for all you still slow on the Arabic uptake.)