“We look like tourists,” Robert remarked.
“We are,” Vincent replied.
It was blazing hot in Paris—and sunny. Our family had decided to trek into the “City of Lights” for a day.
“I have never seen the Eiffel Tower,” David told us multiple times recently.
He HAD seen the Eiffel Tower, we assured him, but he was too little at the time to remember.
Pierre, on the other hand, had never seen the Eiffel Tower. We were all due for a trip of sightseeing in Paris.
Leaving Vincent’s parents for the day, we drove into the city. We parked our van in the same parking lot we had used for our three years of living in La Défense—the business district of Paris.
A Flood of Memories
Just pulling into the underground parking garage brought back a flood of memories.
Our family began our visit of Paris walking around La Défense, stopping at the entrance of our old apartment complex and looking at the balconies—trying to recall which floor we had lived on in the 20-floor skyrise apartment building. None of us could remember.
Next stop was Timothee’s first preschool where he had attended from age 3-4. Surprisingly, he had vivid memories of the building and the playground. Pierre was especially intrigued by that sight and that story.
We then walked by the local library where Timothee and Robert had enjoyed looking at books, the Arab grocery store where I had shopped each week, the church we had attended regularly, my favorite neighborhood pharmacy, the fountain that Timothee used to play in during our long afternoon walks . . . so many wonderful memories.
Things Don’t Look the Same
Things had really built-up and developed over the years, so I couldn’t find the business language school where I had taught and the nursery where Robert had attended. They were now hidden from my sight. New restaurants and cafés distorted my view and fogged my aging and fading memory.
“We look like tourists,” Robert said, as I snapped photos on my phone at every stop.
“We are,” Dad replied.
Getting out my phone every few minutes gave us away. We were definitely tourists—”French tourists.”
We were tourists in our own city.
Picture-Happy!
I couldn’t seem to get enough pictures. If only photographs could cause time to stand still in my fading memory. I didn’t want to miss a single moment—certainly didn’t want to forget to take pictures. At least I would have these memories to look back on.
Accepting—with humility—our current status and label as “tourists in Paris,” we proceeded to do the “tourist thing.”
We jumped on the metro, strapping Pierre into the stroller to keep him contained and safe in the busy crowd.
Notre Dame Has Changed
Our first stop was Notre Dame. It was a different Notre Dame than we had known before. “Our Lady” had burned just a few months before.
Restorations and renovations had already begun with the millions of euros of donations that had poured in as a result of the recent tragedy. The infamous UNESCO monument would one day be made new.
We had seen on the news that they had held the first Sunday mass in the cathedral since the devastating fire blazed through. Perhaps Notre Dame was open to the public again.
Upon arriving, we approached the side of the cathedral. The blackened windows and stone were visibly evident. Robert and I both noticed an odd burnt smell when walking by.
Police stood guard on every side—watching our every move—and a barrier wall surrounded the still-glorious facade of “Our Lady.” It was not open to the public, and its notorious spire was no more.
We got as close as we could to the beautiful structure, took a few pictures, and then continued on our way.
“I’m sorry that you never got to visit Notre Dame,” I said to David and Pierre.
Timothee and Robert had both been inside the cathedral multiple times, but they were too young to remember. That saddened me.
Strolling Through the Gardens
We walked for hours—beside the Seine River and its shoreline bookstores, to the Louvre, through the Jardins des Tuileries, to the Concorde, towards the Arc de Triomphe, along the famous Champs Elysées, and to the Eiffel Tower.
Half-way through our long walk in the stiffling heat, we stopped for a prized crèpe, gauffre (waffle), and cold drinks—of course, no ice. Yum!
That energized these tourists enough to continue on their way.
More than 15,000 steps later, we arrived at the wide-mouthed base of the Eiffel Tower. It doesn’t matter how many times you have seen its beauty, your breath is always taken away.
Booked Solid
We had hoped to go up into the Eiffel Tower. I had tried to purchase tickets online the night before, but they were sold out for the next 5 days.
“It is one of the most visited monuments in the world,” said Vincent, when I seemed surprised that it was booked solid.
The lines for buying tickets on-site were miles long, and no one had that much patience left inside of them.
At least that would save us 61 euros. Later in the day, we would need that extra money.
Rather, we walked around the majestic, steel-colored Eiffel Tower on all sides, then stood back at a distance on the lawn to admire its beauty. I have never seen Timothee, Robert, and David take so many selfies! If photographed by someone else—in order to get the best shots—the photographer had to be willing to lay flat on the ground to capture the entire height of the metal monster. Its peak jetted sky high, narrowing with every centimeter.
“I Thought That We Could Touch It.”
“I thought that we could touch it,” said Pierre sadly as we strolled away to take the metro.
Unfortunately, we were never able to get that close up. The security walls kept us at a safe distance.
“Maybe next time we can go up,” I replied.
“I’m not sure when we will get back to Paris,” I thought to myself.
Exhausted by then, we walked to the metro and headed back to our car parked at La Défense. Thankfully, we had Pierre strapped in the stroller, underneath it’s canopy—safe from the sun. The rest of us had bright red, burned skin on our faces and necks.
18,000 steps in a 6-hour period—we would all sleep well tonight.
Pierre fell asleep as soon as we began our 1-hour drive back to Vincent’s parents’ house.
Sightseeing is fun, but tiring.
We were tourists for the day—tourists in our own city.
Robert was born in Paris—a native-Parisien. Yet, today, he was a tourist too. We were all tourists in our own city.
—The Cultural Story-Weaver
Let’s Weave Cultures!
Sometimes we don’t take the time to visit the city in which we live or our hometown. Have you ever taken the time to be a “tourist in your own city?” If so, what was it like?
We invite you to tell us your own cultural stories and global adventures . . . as you engage with the world, breaking down barriers, building bridges, and “weaving cultures”! Write about them in the comment box below.
Love your stories! Miss you all so much! XX
Thank you for following our family’s nomadic journey. We love and miss you all too!