Where is My Beret?

So.  Once upon a time I went to Paris and proposed to Courtney up the Eiffel Tower and she said no. It was a bad time for me, especially as I had proposed the year before on the plane to Dublin and she had also said no. I didn't ever really get over the trauma: I had to move to Asia and despite her constant attempts to heal the gaping wound between us - seeking me out in Vietnam and travelling half way across the world to sing and bridesmaid at my wedding - the first cut is the deepest and I'm not sure I'll ever love another American girl in the same way. Sigh. 

Paris, therefore, is not a city of romance, culture and beauty for me, but a cesspit of bitterness, broken-heartedness and rejection, especially as Courtney is absolutely gaga about the place and goes on and on and on about how romantic it is, how full of style, how historic, how packed with drama and passion. Whatever. 

Thus, when Frenchie and I had our first board meeting to discuss my new role as Expat Wife and define my job spec, and he informed me that 'accompany on work trips to Europe' was a 'desired' quality, and that by 'Europe' he meant 'Paris', I was understandably a bit upset. I had to request a personal day to reopen the Facebook album of The Trip (in fact, there were two Paris trips with Courtney) whilst listening to sad music and drinking American wine. 

However, always keen to Do A Good Job in any position I acquire, I quickly rallied and informed Frenchie that an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris would be acceptable and that I would pack stylish and elegant clothes, stop eating for a week and practice my 'air of bitch' to better merge with the feminine culture of the locals (joooooooking! (but quite an accurate joke)).

First, there was the long haul flight: Frenchie was allowed to fly Business Class, but despite my very nice conversations with the check in man, Air France caught a whiff of my eau de poverty and perpetual grubby student and refused to move me from Economy where I really belong.  Thirteen hours later, therefore, I emerged, notably inelegant but having perfected a very precise 'air of bitch'.

There was lots of exploring of Paris to be done to convince me of its merit. I informed Frenchie very clearly that he should not get his hopes up or expect me to love it instantly. In fact, I would probably only leave feeling luke warm about the place, and it would take another three weeks of nostalgia to convince me that I'd actually enjoyed myself. 

Then Frenchie introduced me to my très jolie vue of the Eiffel Tower, as seen from our hotel balcony:

And here it is at night time:

Oh... Paris is GORGEOUS.

So.  Paris is gorgeous. So beautiful. Everywhere you look there's something pretty or pituresque or historic or perfectly French.  And there are just so many opportunities for me to destroy elegance. Allow me, please...

Hèrmes - Frenchie's Big Boss and fashion house of great and historic renown, as destroyed by Emma the Gimp:

Oh yeah. Next, that bridge that everyone talks about with the locks on it that symbolise true love forever and unending commitment... Destroyed by Emma the Jetlagged:

After that, Frenchie disallowed the Selfie and instead we got back to some serious business, namely drinking tea in famous Satre and de Beauvoir drinking hole, Cafe Flores.  You can see them both, musing feminist and existentialist thought in the left hand corner there, whilst the waiter thinks about serving us, but doesn't because he's Parisian and what would be the sense in customer service?

It was also Patriotic Day of France, also known as Bastille Day, but since Frenchie's spent the last eleven years being unpatriotic in Asia, he didn't see why he would have to start being patriotic now so we fobbed off the parade, slept through the fireworks and haughtily avoided the Champs Élysées. However, I did manage to get a photo of the remnants of Les Arrows Rouges from the Jardins de Luxembourg at a moment when I was temporarily distracted from some adorable ducklings and a remote controlled sail boat that Frenchie was trying to use to explain to me why the Luftwaffe Boom was not my enemy:

 

Let's have some more prettiness in the form of photos to which I made minor adjustments...

So, Paris, I admit, Courtney, is as beautiful as you have always said it was. It is especially pretty when you are not an impoverished student and you don't mind spending €14 on breakfast, when the sun is shining and when your travel buddy has already said yes to your proposition of marriage and has to pay for your coffee. 

It is also conveniently close to London where I am about to give my sister a heart attack by turning up at her work unannounced...