I didn’t go back to the Love Bridge again. But I did return to the City of Lights for a second time.
It was cooler this time. Of course it would be, as it was January, but there was a distinct crispness to the air.
Like biting into a cold, crisp apple.
As I walked down Avenue Gustave, I gazed up at the tower lovingly, as most cliche tourists do. Holding up my phone, I gesture to my companion.
“Let me take a picture of you,” I say.
My baby sister, Erica, poses as I snap a few quick pictures.
He’s not with us, but at the time, I was in the process of possibly getting back together with my former travel partner, Mike. As I’ll realize in a later visit to the city, I always seem to be struggling with romantic endeavors when I’m here.
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We eventually make our way down to Saint Germain, as Erica wants to see Notre Dame. We make the trip rather effortlessly via their subway, which wouldn’t always be our experience using the public transportation here.
Leaning on the heavy iron railing, I look over the Seine. It’s about dusk now, and while there aren’t many people around, I’m not sure if I’d notice them if they were.
My gloves are itchy.
Over the next few days, we’d see everything. We strolled down the chilly streets of Montmarte, walking in and out of fromageries. I got a glass of champagne for lunch at Le Consulat, and we joke with the waiter about the Philadelphia Eagles, the only American football team he knows.
We ate king cake while celebrating Three Kings Day with Marion and Laurent, along with their children, Lou and baby Robin. We nearly got arrested by French police while trying to get onto their metro. I showed my sister all of the places I felt so inspired by before, but…
…it was different this time.
I don’t recall talking to Mike while we were in France.
“He loves her,” Erica had told Laurent, while we were taking shots of 1919.
“He drove us four hours to the airport,” she informs them, looking at me knowingly.
Laurent issues a casual warning to me as I take a bite of my king cake, about always having itchy feet (common saying for someone who likes to travel, if you’re not familiar with the term.)
“How will anyone ever know if you want to stay?” he says, his broken English perfectly frosted by his French accent, similar to the slightly powdered cake.
I shake my head and exchange glances with Marion. I ask her if she remembers the afternoon on the porch, from years before.
She does.