I have been, for the past three days, a most conscientious tourist. I have been to the base of the Eiffel Tower, to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, up and down Champs Élysées, inside Notre Dame, and around the perimeter of Ile de la Cite. I’ve climbed the stairs to the top of Montmarte and Sacré-Coeur, ridden the metro all over town, walked on both banks of the Seine, crossed numerous bridges, taken photographs, and gotten lost in the winding streets.
I’ve eaten baguette with stinky cheese, sipped mulled wine, sat in a cafe, selected macarons from the famous Ladurée, purchased fruit from a small stand on the street, had German beer in a crowded and noisy pub, and munched on quiche with wandering the grounds of the Louvre museum.
I have not cried in public, thrown a tantrum, or locked myself in the apartment never to come out. I pronounce the whole thing a raging success.