— Valery Bryusov, “Paris”
“Don’t let your dreams stay dreams” — can’t remember where I first heard that phrase, but it stuck like superglue. It was 2013. Mom and I were sitting in the kitchen chatting about something or other. At one point, she casually mentioned that ever since her university days, she’d dreamed of seeing Paris with her own eyes. She dropped the thought and moved on, but I… well, I mentally bookmarked it.
Later, once the idea started brewing in my head, I realized what I was going to give her for her big milestone birthday. One dictator once said, “If you want to rule the world — you need a solid plan!” Two years to go until the anniversary. I had exactly that long to scrape together enough cash for a week-long Paris getaway — for both her and myself. Sending her solo wasn’t an option; her travel experience was hovering somewhere between “virtually none” and “please no.” The last thing I wanted was to go hunting for her in some Iranian brothel.
I had to plan everything: passport, visa, tickets, accommodation, transport — essentially, I had to become both a tour operator and a personal concierge.
Funny thing is, I never actually wanted to go to Paris myself. Like, ever. On my personal travel bucket list, it hovered somewhere at the bottom, chilling between Bogotá and Ushuaia. Even back in university, I once wrote an essay titled “Why I DON’T Want to Visit Paris,” and promptly got roasted by the entire French department for my cultural blasphemy. But it turned out that making a 30-year-old dream come true could shuffle the priorities even of the most stubborn traveler.
And as luck would have it, those two years coincided with the Russian ruble’s emotional breakdown. It seemed determined to find rock bottom — and then dig deeper. First it started trading at 70 rubles per euro. Then 80. Then 90. I still remember the day we hit that sacred 100-ruble-per-euro milestone. The Italian guys at work, just for the drama of it, went to the ATM to check with their own eyes if the numbers were real.
Still, despite the financial apocalypse, I managed to pave the way not just for the Paris trip, but even sneak in a couple extra days in Rome — a city I’d happily revisit every single year.
At the train station and airport, I felt like Moses leading his people — all one of them — through an urban desert. Mom was looking around with wide eyes, absolutely buzzing with curiosity, peppering me with question after question. I’d timed everything so we’d be among the first to check in, and of course I asked for a window seat for her — turns out that girlish dreaminess doesn’t age out with time.
— Fyodor Tyutchev, “Rome at Night”
Landing. Air stair. Rome. It said November on the calendar, but our hearts were already in spring. Despite December lurking just around the corner, central Italy greeted us with a confident warmth — and we gladly peeled off layers of clothing and Russian reality alike. After a brisk trot through the city, we arrived at a cozy little hotel, checked in, caught our breath, and couldn’t resist a short nighttime stroll around the neighborhood before sleep.
The next morning, we kicked things off with one of the Eternal City’s most iconic gems — the Trevi Fountain. Built back in the 18th century, it draws massive crowds of tourists year after year like a siren’s song. If you’re lucky enough to find it not wrapped in scaffolding during your visit (Rome and restorations are like pasta and parmesan — inseparable), don’t forget to toss a coin in. Legend says:
One coin — and you’ll return to Rome.
Two — you’ll find the love of your life.
Three — you’ll get married.
Four — unimaginable wealth awaits.
Five — and you’ll part ways with someone dear.
Can’t vouch for the full spectrum of that financial-emotional recipe, but as far as the single-coin spell goes — it works like a charm. I’ve tossed one in three times, and three times I’ve come back to this dazzling city. Fourth trip is already tickling at the edges of my plans.
Oh, and for the record — people don’t tend to hold back. Most go all in with the coin toss. According to official stats, about 1.4 million euros in coins were scooped out of the fountain in 2017 alone. That’s considered an average haul from all the dreamers and romantics visiting from across the globe.
After helping my mom take her very first selfie ever, and basically snapping her from every conceivable angle like I was prepping a Vogue spread, we headed off to one of the most recognizable landmarks not just in Rome, but in the entire world — the Colosseum.
I’ve long noticed a recurring problem with the world’s most famous landmarks — they’re almost always wrapped in scaffolding or trapped in some never-ending cycle of renovation. And sure enough, the Colosseum followed suit. The inside of the ancient arena was off-limits due to yet another round of restorative work. So, we had to content ourselves with marveling at the marvel from the outside. Still — not too shabby. A 50,000-seat feat of medieval engineering, standing proud since 80 AD. No, it’s not Luzhniki or the Olympiyskiy Stadium, but it is nearly seven Crocus City Halls. Which, for the first century? Pretty damn impressive.
As we gazed up at this hulking icon, we flashed back to a few legendary scenes from Gladiator — Russell Crowe in full fury — and figured we’d try our luck at the nearby Roman Forum, or as the locals suavely call it, Foro Romano.
A few laps around its sprawling grounds later, we realized with a mix of disbelief and growing frustration: no dice here either. The ticket booths had been relocated because — yes, you guessed it — more renovations. When we finally tracked down their new location, it turned out those particular booths only sold tickets for pre-booked tours. Regular entry? Whole different ticket office. Now simmering, we launched into another mini expedition. And when we finally stumbled across the actual line for ordinary tickets? A writhing beast of a queue.
That was our breaking point. We were only in Rome for a couple of days and wasting them standing in line felt like a crime against la dolce vita. So, we did the only reasonable thing: drowned our sorrows in absurdly oversized cones of impossibly perfect Italian gelato. A few divine spoonfuls in, all frustrations melted away like yesterday’s snow, and we bounced off toward the towering monument of Victor Emmanuel II — and the neighboring gallery bearing his name.
This enormous hunk of marble and ambition stands right next to the old Forum and, like most grand European structures, tries its best to keep up with modern trends — including an observation deck on the roof. Entrance isn’t cheap, but the views? Worth every cent. Behind us: the Colosseum and the Forum sprawled beneath the sunset. Ahead: the famous Via del Corso — a nearly pedestrian boulevard stretching a kilometer and a half straight into Piazza del Popolo (People’s Square). Usually teeming with tourists, feathered bandits (pigeons and gulls who’ve clearly lost all sense of shame), and — on lucky days — live performances from local and not-so-local musicians.
We accidentally shared our ice cream with a few winged freeloaders, and after a short stroll through the nearby park, we made our way toward Piazza di Spagna — the Spanish Steps. Thanks to the famous staircase spilling into it, this square was somehow even more packed than the more spacious People’s Square. But honestly? That staircase is a full-blown celebrity. It’s appeared in films with Adriano Celentano, Agent 007, and even got a nod from Woody Allen in To Rome with Love.
And it makes sense. Especially in the evening, the whole piazza hums with a kind of special magic. Despite the crowds, it somehow never feels overcrowded. Every one of the 138 steps is covered in people — some alone, some clumped into cozy little clusters. Someone’s smoking. Someone’s sipping wine. Someone’s chatting. Someone’s doing all three, just as Caesar would've approved.
The fountain at the base — La Barcaccia, shaped like a half-sunken boat — is swarmed with both locals and tourists. Because let’s face it: drinking wine, having a deep chat, and watching water flow beats just drinking wine and chain-smoking in an alley.
We strolled the wonderfully crooked Roman streets with no particular urgency, soaking in the city’s evening charm. Oversized slices of pizza, coffee so good it should be illegal, and that slow, sacred kind of joy that only Rome can offer. We refused to think about the fact that somewhere out there, winter had arrived, slush was spreading, and utility bills had risen yet again, causing peasants everywhere to definitely not rejoice.
What could be better than a day in Rome? That’s right — two days in Rome! Since we had to be at the airport by late afternoon, we decided to optimize our remaining time to the max.
First mission: stock up on a few tins of illy coffee. I’d brought some back from my first trip to Italy, and after one sip, Mom was hooked. Partly because of the caffeine, sure — but mostly because of that full-bodied flavor and the intoxicating aroma of premium arabica. Armed with our caffeinated treasure, we dashed into a cosmetics store.
Now, I had my doubts. I feared I’d age a decade before all the necessary potions and lotions were selected. But boredom? Not a chance. My translator skills came in handy as the shop assistant seamlessly roped Mom into what could only be described as a TED Talk on the history of half the beauty aisle. At one point, I found myself performing live simultaneous interpretation because the tidal wave of beauty info was approaching dangerous levels.
Our shopping finale? A new handbag. Because I knew the coffee would be drunk, the creams used up — but the bag would stick around, bringing back memories of strolling those cobbled Roman streets with every glance.
We still had about 3–4 hours to spare, so we visited the Roman Zoo — or, as it adamantly insists, the biopark. Twelve hectares of pure mammalian/bird/reptile/fish/insect glory. No cages allowed — only massive open-air enclosures.
We watched an absurdly lazy seal redefine the very concept of loafing. Tourists begged it in eleven languages to do something, anything. But this chonky grey barrel with a lovable mug just lounged under a stream of cold water, twitching its whiskers in mockery.
Then there were the hippos — clearly at odds over something. Had it not been for the wire fence between them, Darwin’s theory might have received an unscheduled field demonstration.
At one point, Mom zoomed over, chirping with glee that she’d seen an elephant that close for the first time in her life.
Time flew, and soon it was off to the airport to begin the main act of the birthday surprise: Paris.
On the plane, while my attention was absorbed by a chicken sandwich, Mom gazed dreamily out the window — or tried to. She wasn’t exactly in the window seat. That honor went to a random Frenchwoman, who seemed increasingly convinced that Mom wasn’t admiring the scenery but staring at her. Despite repeated assurances that it was just the Alps she was after and not a swap of seating arrangements, the slightly paranoid mademoiselle remained unconvinced.
Eventually, the clouds parted, and the snow-capped peaks of the Alps teased us from below, gleaming in the sun. Mom, overcome by wonder, leaned her entire body toward the window — sending the poor French doe into what can only be described as a near-catatonic state of alarm.
Touchdown. The stairs. Paris.
There was something quietly fascinating about returning to Charles de Gaulle Airport after seven years — and not sprinting through it this time, frantically scanning signs for a New York-bound gate. The day was slipping into evening, and the last thing either of us wanted was to wrestle with the labyrinth of trains and metro lines. In true Mme. Prostakova fashion — “when you’ve got a driver, geography is optional” — we hailed one of the many taxis swarming nearby, sank into the seats with blessed air conditioning, and headed to check in.
Our hotel was nestled not far from Montmartre, so we had plenty of time. The taxi driver didn’t waste a second before striking up conversation. It quickly became apparent that either he didn’t speak English, or he was playing dumb (the sly rascal). So, I had to painfully squeeze out whatever long-dormant French I had left buried in my mental attic.
And that’s how we arrived at one of the more comical moments of the trip. As I struggled to assemble a basic thought — “We’re from Russia. We came... uhh... to celebrate... mmm... an anniversary...” — the driver, thinking he had brilliantly cracked the code, beamed and blurted out: “Wedding anniversary?”
My denial was completely drowned out by my mom’s delighted laughter. Apparently, all the Roman compliments about her youthful looks were about to find their encore here in Paris.
Once I clarified that the beautiful woman in the backseat was my mother, the driver’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He almost plowed into a bus and spent the rest of the ride chirping like a nightingale about how it simply couldn’t be true — mothers like that don’t exist, not for sons that grown-up.
As we exited the cab, he handed me his business card with a flourish, earnestly swearing he’d be thrilled to drive us back to the airport when the time came. The way he was eyeing my mom, though, I decided that card was going to meet an unfortunate “accidental” fate and would definitely not be getting used.
My mom, wrapped from head to toe in compliments, stepped out of the cab practically glowing. If a Geiger counter had been anywhere nearby, it probably would’ve gone berserk.
Check-in was swift, and we headed off in a random direction to explore. Hunger made itself known not long after, and we ducked into the first restaurant we saw. We placed our order, and for a while, we just sat in silence, giggling like fools. There was a surreal quality hanging in the air.
We were in Paris.
It’s hard to pin down exactly why Paris holds such mythical weight for Russians. There’s something about it — some unreachable dream, some grand finale to all dreams. After all, where else could a phrase like “See Paris and die” have come from? Even my usual dislike of France had quietly vanished, replaced by wide-eyed curiosity. I kept turning my head, taking it all in — the colors, the sounds, the strange weight of the city’s beauty.
The next morning, after a brief strategy meeting, we decided to pay our respects to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart.
Back in my university days, when French grammar tormented me endlessly, Sacré-Cœur stared mockingly at me from the cover of my textbook. I swear it was laughing, dome to dome, at my miserable attempts to master passé composé verb forms.
But credit where it’s due — in the sunlight, the basilica’s rounded white domes gave it a strange airiness, almost like... marshmallow? Yes, something fluffy and sweet. Even the smug green equestrian statues of Saint Louis and Joan of Arc couldn’t break the illusion — the whole thing looked like one giant, monumental meringue.
Since Sacré-Cœur is featured in every Paris guidebook without exception, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that a whole ecosystem has sprung up around it — expertly designed to relieve tourists of their hard-earned rubles, dollars, euros, yuans, marks, and zlotys swiftly and efficiently.
Besides the endless souvenir shops and cafés, there’s a small square right next to the basilica that’s entirely dedicated to the artistic trade — painters, mostly. For a not-so-modest €50–60, you can sit for a portrait in any style imaginable: from cheeky caricatures and raw art brut to hyperrealism or moody black-and-white realism.
Let me offer one piece of advice: be very picky when choosing your artist.
My mom sat down with one painter who, I kid you not, rendered her in such a bizarre — not to say downright terrifying — fashion that we had no choice but to decline payment. This, in turn, earned us a colorful little monologue in French featuring a number of unflattering epithets.
Thankfully, the second artist we tried did a much better job. While the final result didn’t look exactly like her, the important thing was that she liked it — and the poster tube carrying the portrait ended up in my backpack like a treasured trophy.
But beyond the samurai of gouache and graphite, we also ran into another character — or rather, he ran into us (on that square, “aggressive marketing” takes on an entirely new meaning).
An elderly gentleman with silver hair wielded a pair of scissors with astonishing grace, snipping away at thick black paper with the precision of a concert violinist. In just about a minute, he could cut out the silhouette of anyone.
Curious and in a playful mood, I asked him to make mine — a bespectacled profile.
Less than two minutes later, I was staring at an absurdly accurate version of myself in shadow — right down to the scruffy week-old beard and the shape of my glasses.
The rogue even managed to give the thing character. I happily handed over €10, thoroughly impressed.
Whoever’s wandered across our blue-green marble of a planet knows the first culinary commandment of a thrifty traveler: eat where the locals do. Nine times out of ten, the prices will be human-friendly (i.e., not engineered to annihilate tourists), and the quality of the food will rival that of the hyped-up eateries lurking along the city’s main sightseeing veins.
That said, after hours of noise, bustle, and an endless spiral of life near Sacré-Cœur, we decided to throw caution to the wind and duck into a tiny, cozy restaurant just off a neighboring street. It was too small to host a tourist stampede, and a handwritten sign reading “Escargots de Bourgogne” made my taste buds stage a coup and seize the decision-making power.
Inside, we surrendered to culinary clichés with zero shame. Mom went for the classic French onion soup; I dove headfirst into a plate of escargots. To wash it all down, we chose a glass of dry red wine. Our order was taken by a grandfatherly waiter with a magnificent moustache who chuckled softly as he turned away. At the time, I dismissed it as whimsical elder eccentricity.
Only later, back at the hotel, did I learn that snails are traditionally served with dry white wine. Oh well. At the table, ignorance was bliss.
The onion soup? So oniony it felt like someone had diced up Cipollino himself — skin, stem, and political ideals. A few spoonfuls in, and I became the onion. I smelled like one, I spoke like one, I thought like one. If anyone had tried to chop me just then, they would’ve burst into tears. Leave me in a damp dark cupboard for a fortnight and I’d probably sprout stylish green shoots.
Now, the snails. Flavor-wise, no complaints — they taste a lot like ordinary mussels with a hint of spice. The tricky bit is the logistics. So, if you don’t want to give Frenchmen or well-traveled friends a reason to giggle at your expense, here’s how to conquer escargot like a pro:
Grab the special tongs — they’re “normally-closed,” which means you squeeze to open and release to grip. Lock the shell in with the opening facing up. Then, take your tiny two-pronged fork and start stirring around in the green sauce like a gold prospector panning for treasure. When you hit something springy — jackpot. That’s your snail.
Stab it, give it a good once-over (because you’re still a bit squeamish deep down), and eat it. Then place the now-unoccupied shell back into the groove on the plate. Repeat as many times as there are snails. It’s a bit of a process, yes — but delicacy doesn’t come easy. And for the record, they’re good for you too: high protein, low fat, very mollusk-chic.
Oh, and that Mars-green sauce? Don’t be suspicious. It’s perfectly Earth-based: basil, garlic, butter, and salt — nothing alien about it.
After our little gastronomic safari, we wandered down the steps from Sacré-Cœur and decided to walk a bit more. Following the stream of tourists, we somehow, almost without realizing it, found ourselves standing in front of the world’s most famous red windmill — the Moulin Rouge.
This quirky cabaret, opened back in 1889, once entertained the likes of Oscar Wilde, Picasso, and even the Prince of Wales. They say no one performs the can-can quite like they do here. And here’s a spicy little fact: it was right in this very cabaret that, in 1893, one of the dancers became the first in history to completely disrobe on stage — thus giving birth to the noble art form we now know as striptease.
The area surrounding the Moulin Rouge, however, falls just a tad short of its bohemian glamor. There’s quite a bit of trash, makeshift beds, the homeless themselves, and plenty of ladies of the night actively pursuing new clientele.
When one such courtesan approached me — skirts rustling and voice thick with smoke and gravel — and asked if I was ready to experience “heavenly pleasure for thirty euros,” I very honestly replied that I’d just taken a vow of chastity five seconds ago, and it would last at least until the end of this street.
With a hearty laugh, the priestess of passion (or maybe it was a priest?) said “It happens!” and sashayed back to her sisters-in-silk.
After a day that full, the most logical move was to retreat to our hotel, digest the experience — both literal and metaphorical — and brace ourselves for the next day, which would no doubt have its own ideas about what constitutes “ordinary.”
— Vladimir Vysotsky, “Ah, Dearest Vanya! I’m Strolling Through Paris…”
The plan for the morning fit neatly into just six letters — Louvre.
After joyfully devouring a croissant each, washed down with cappuccino at a nearby café, we set off to enrich our souls and finally gaze upon that smile that reportedly took almost twelve years to paint!
You know, walking around Paris leaves quite a mixed impression.
Perhaps it's a quirk of all major tourist hubs: as long as you stick to the main arteries, everything’s picture-perfect — clean, cozy, crowded, but tolerable.
But veer off onto the side streets and alleys, and the scene changes drastically.
What greets you is the same disheveled panorama I’ve had the dubious pleasure of encountering in St. Petersburg, New York, and Barcelona. Buildings long overdue for repair. Piles of trash. An air of general neglect. Fringe characters who believe that using a public toilet for its intended purpose is a sign of “mental enslavement” and “cultural conformity.” Yeah… right.
Still pondering the complex worldview of the local clochards and their kindred spirits, we didn’t even notice how we’d arrived at that very glass pyramid.
I’d heard the legends of the queues at the Louvre — that one could stand there long enough to meet someone, fall in love, build a family, establish a life together... all before even reaching the metal detectors. These fears, it turns out, aren’t entirely unfounded, and I’ve seen plenty of photographic evidence to support them.
But on that day, Lady Luck was clearly in a generous mood. She decided that 40 to 50 minutes of waiting would suffice.
Fair warning: the Louvre is huge.
If your plan is to see everything, block off the entire day.
And if you’re the kind of person who likes to stand in front of a painting and wrestle with the eternal question, “What was the artist trying to say?” — then you better clear your whole week.
Naturally, the undisputed favorite for many visitors here is Leonardo da Vinci’s legendary Mona Lisa.
It’s just a bit sad that, with the rise of social media, this masterpiece has been reduced to a kind of surrogate trophy for Instagram. People elbow their way to the front, whip out their phones, take a selfie… and leave. Some don’t even look at the painting itself.
So, I didn’t even try to force my way through the dense ring of these so-called “art lovers.” Instead, I stood back calmly and waited — waited for the flashes to fade, for the geotags to be placed, and for the crowd to thin out on its own.
In the end, it only took three to five minutes to get up close.
At that moment, a curious little story floated up in my memory — one I’d read somewhere about how, back in 1911, a particularly bold Italian managed to steal the Mona Lisa.
Three years later, once he thought the hype around the missing painting had died down, he came up with a brilliant idea: put it up for sale.
The listing said, quite plainly:
“Original Mona Lisa painting.”
Unfortunately for him, the collector who saw the ad was a cautious type. He contacted the police, who quickly swooped in and apprehended the clumsy art burglar.
At the interrogation, Vincenzo declared he had stolen the painting out of patriotic devotion — he wanted the masterpiece to return to its true homeland, Italy.
Looking at that mysterious smile now, resting safely beneath bulletproof glass, I wondered — did da Vinci, while painting her (the whole Mona Lisa, not just the smile), have any inkling that one day his work would live such a glamorous public life?
And this isn’t even an exaggeration: in 2018 alone, the Louvre broke its own attendance record — over 10 million visitors!
That’s as if the entire population of Belgium had spontaneously decided to pop in for a museum visit.
After nearly four hours of soaking in art, we figured it was time for a quick bite — but without lowering the cultural bar.
Fortunately, our next destination wasn’t far. We set off in search of one of the world’s most iconic Gothic cathedrals. It took nearly 200 years to build and was immortalized by Victor Hugo in his famous novel.
Of course, I’m talking about Notre-Dame de Paris.
We approached from the western façade — the one that’s plastered across countless postcards and travel brochures. The square in front of it was cloaked in a smell so fiercely feline that it nearly took your breath away — and not just from awe.
The line of tourists eager to see the interior (or maybe just to escape the dubious “fresh air” of the square) stretched halfway around the Île de la Cité.
So we decided a good, long look from the outside would do just fine.
Crossing yet another bridge, its railings sagging under the weight of love locks in every color, shape, and size imaginable, we stepped into a very different Paris.
Here, the streets were narrow and cobbled, the kind that quietly whisper history under your feet.
We passed those tiny, local cafés — the kind Parisians actually go to for their morning coffee, for catching up with friends, for the flakiest croissants, and the juiciest gossip.
After hours of tourist buzz and noise, it felt good to finally breathe in the city’s real atmosphere — to let Paris speak for itself, quietly and intimately.
— Marina Tsvetaeva, “In Paris”
We weren’t wandering through the twisted backstreets of Paris just for fun. I’d spent a fair bit of time combing through the Internet in search of one iconic dish — something you absolutely have to try at least once in your life: frog legs. These unlucky amphibians used to be served pretty much everywhere, but animal rights activists have been busy, and these days even in Paris they’re not so easy to come by.
The owners of the restaurant we finally picked seemed determined to remove any doubt about what we were getting ourselves into. Two frog statues greeted us at the entrance. The wall panels inside were frog themed. The leather-bound menus were embossed with frogs. It was like the place was softly whispering, “Brace yourself. It’s about to get froggy.” Apparently, they offered no fewer than fourteen different preparations of frog legs.
The waiter, with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times, laid down the menus and immediately launched into describing some complicated house specialty — one that included a dozen and a half spices, wine, grated unicorn horn, dragon scales, and crushed philosopher’s stone.
Our confused and mildly alarmed faces brought him back to earth. I took the opportunity to explain that this was our first frog rodeo, and we’d prefer something a bit more… straightforward. As for the wine, that could absolutely be served as a dish in its own right.
He pondered this for a moment, then pronounced that for novice frog-devourers, it was best to start with the classic: crispy fried legs in garlic sauce. Done and done.
They say around three billion frogs are eaten worldwide each year. Only in some of the poorest regions is wild frog hunting still a thing — the rest come from specialized frog farms in Southeast Asia. Indonesia alone exports over 5,000 tons of future delicacies annually.
Where the frogs on our plates had come from, I didn’t know — and honestly, didn’t care. Their appearance was... original, to say the least. It looked like someone caught a frog mid-leap, cut it clean in half, tossed the front part, and deep-fried the back until it was golden and glistening. My mom took one look and declared, “You first,” before retreating into her glass of Bordeaux.
I took a cautious bite — and had to admit, I actually liked it. The garlic was punchy but well-balanced by the spices. The meat was juicy and tender, and the rice on the side smoothed out the unfamiliar flavor, rounding the whole thing into something harmonious and pleasant. The wine, of course, didn’t hurt either.
The actual eating technique reminded me of chicken wings — crack the joint, strip the meat from the bone. A basic comparison, sure, but the meat does taste like chicken. Just a bit softer, a bit more delicate.
Inspired by the sound of my enthusiastic munching, my mom gave it a go and, to her surprise, concluded: “Surprisingly edible.”
A couple of hours — and one bottle of Bordeaux — later, we made our way back to the hotel on foot. And really, unless you’ve got a 6 a.m. shift tomorrow, taking the Paris metro at night feels borderline criminal.
The city was glowing. Warm light poured from thousands of streetlamps and fairy-lit shopfronts. From cafés drifted the voice of Édith Piaf or Mireille Mathieu. The Seine murmured under the bridges, where party boats sailed lazily along, ferrying revelers, flâneurs, and bohemians across the city.
And nearly everywhere you looked — there it was: the Eiffel Tower. A symbol forever bound to Paris, and to France itself.
Tomorrow, we planned to climb all the way to the very top.
Maximilian Voloshin, “Autumn… Autumn… All of Paris…”
As we strolled toward the tower, we chatted about how Paris had been making us feel. Turned out we were on the same page: both of us had the distinct impression that the French capital had greeted us with a blunt, "So? What do you want?" It felt cold and unwelcoming.
Unlike, say, Venice — where grumpy shopkeepers often look like they've been emotionally waterboarded by waves of tourists — Parisian service workers were ridiculously polite. Warm smiles everywhere. People genuinely happy to help. Always ready with a kind word. What threw us off was the vibe of the city itself. Aloof. Unrushed. Judging us from behind its wrought iron balconies.
But then, just as we turned a corner, the top of the Eiffel Tower peeked flirtatiously out from behind the buildings — and something clicked. That’s when we got it: this wasn’t rudeness. It was a test. Paris had been sizing us up. Unsure if we were worth showing its real face. But once it saw we were serious — that we’d come not just to snap selfies, but to truly feel the city — it finally relented. And turned its dazzling front toward us, leaving the cold shoulder to the rest of the world.
Now, I must confess — up close, the Eiffel Tower is impressive. I even felt a little guilty for once calling it a “mediocre rusty monstrosity” in a French essay back in school. Sure, it’s rusty in parts. And yes, massive. But mediocre? Not even close.
Expecting an endless queue, I was pleasantly surprised. Only one of the four entrances was open, yet the line was short. Soon we were inside. After conquering the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica on foot, Mom was feeling bold — she agreed to take the stairs with me as high as we could go. (Which, by the way, is very high.)
Halfway up, there’s a cozy little landing packed with souvenir shops and cafés, where the prices are about as astronomical as the views. But fair enough — up here, 70% of the price goes to the location. The very top, where the famous spotlight beams out across the city, is only accessible by elevator. There's a circular viewing deck up there, caged in with steel fencing — a practical solution to stop romantics from fainting or jumpers from… well, jumping.
And what a view it is. A glittering 360-degree panorama of Paris, each arrondissement unfolding like pages of a dream. Naturally, someone figured out how to monetize that too: right in the middle of the already cramped platform sits a tiny champagne stand — a cute little box selling miniature flutes of bubbly.
The crime? A single glass costs 7 euros. Which, to be fair, gets you an entire bottle of decent wine down on Earth. But that’s not what you’re paying for. You’re buying the memory. The sparkle. The story.
Had I been alone, I might have clutched my wallet tighter. But I wasn’t. I was on a mission. Fulfilling a dream. So, I silenced Mom’s gentle protests, bought two glasses, handed her one — and as we stood there, towering above the Champ de Mars, I raised mine and said:
“Well then… happy birthday.”
And in that precise moment, I knew I had done it. I’d finally given my mother the very gift she’d dreamed of ever since her student days.
Of course, we waited for sunset before descending back to the mortal realm. The light was still playfully young, and we decided to stretch our legs along the Champs-Élysées — and maybe gawk at some price tags with enough zeros to sink the budget of a small nation.
Though Christmas (Catholic, naturally) was still more than a month away, the festive markets were already getting dressed for the season. On both sides of the avenue, a kind of joyful chaos was unfolding: neat wooden chalets were being assembled, trucks rolled in with boxes still sealed shut, and workers — under the motivating shouts of their supervisors — were drilling, sawing, gluing, and decorating in full swing.
Curious as ever, we chatted with a few merchants and learned that tomorrow, November 14th, the market would officially open its doors, inviting the most impatient souls to inhale a full diaphragm’s worth of Christmas spirit.
No one could have known then that the date etched into Parisian hearts that weekend would not be the 14th — but the day before.
November 13, 2015.
A date that would stain the city's memory in a key far more somber than any carol.
We returned to the hotel, and something nudged me to check the phone I’d left behind with my domestic SIM card. The screen was ablaze with over 40 missed calls. Everyone was there—family, friends, coworkers. A good 20 were from my father alone.
I called him back immediately, and by the second ring, the receiver exploded with:
“GOOD GOD, YOU’RE ALIVE?! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OVER THERE?!”
In the interest of preserving my eardrums, I held the phone at arm’s length and stepped out onto the balcony.
The street below was small and quiet. Two mothers with strollers were walking by, gesticulating with such intensity they were either discussing a clearance sale or the eternal treachery of men. On the corner, a group of waiters were smoking wearily during a rare break. Across the street, one of the windows stood open, and inside a group of young people were joyfully belting out “Hakuna Matata”—a timeless anthem to idleness and the love of life.
In short: pure idyll.
Somewhat puzzled, I told my dad that everything was perfectly fine—we’d just been up the Eiffel Tower. “Why?”
“TURN ON THE NEWS. NOW.”
I turned on the TV. Didn’t even have to scroll. Every channel showed the same horrific images: rivers of blood, scattered bodies, flames and chaos, police and military forces everywhere. Numb, I listened to the anchors and scanned the headlines.
Apparently, a group of Islamic extremists had decided they couldn’t wait another minute for their personal audience with Allah. They detonated bombs near the Stade de France, gunned down diners at several restaurants, and took hostages at the Bataclan concert hall.
The footage looked like something out of a Hollywood blockbuster or a war-themed video game—except this time it was real. And horrifyingly close.
After calming my father and returning every missed call, I sat in front of the screen, stunned. The final count: over 130 dead, 350 injured. A state of emergency was declared nationwide. The military was placed on full alert. In Paris, a curfew was enacted—for the first time since 1944. France hadn’t seen this level of civilian casualties since World War II.
What made matters more complicated for us was that we were supposed to fly out the next evening. But according to the official announcements, all borders had been sealed until further notice.
Shaken and heavy-hearted, we went to bed hoping—desperately—that somehow, some way, morning might still be wiser than evening.
And the next day, in defiance of all terrorists, religious fanatics, and assorted enemies of society, we took to the streets of Paris once more.
The contrast was brutal.
The Eiffel Tower, in mourning, had gone dark. The cafés and restaurants stood eerily empty—no one lounging on terraces, no one sipping coffee or people-watching. Grim-faced police and armed soldiers patrolled every corner.
The Christmas market, which just the day before had buzzed with life, now looked abandoned and ghostly. One of the would-be vendors, when we asked, sighed and told us that the government had banned all public gatherings, and the market’s opening had been postponed indefinitely.
The entire city felt like a wounded animal—frozen, afraid to move for fear of aggravating the pain. It was heartbreaking to leave Paris in such a state. It hadn’t exactly embraced us with open arms at first, but it had revealed itself slowly, with hesitant charm. It didn’t deserve the cruelty it had suffered.
To be honest, I had fully prepared myself for the possibility that we might not fly home that day. Most flights had been canceled. But apparently, Lady Luck decided we’d had enough shocks for one trip.
The airport was swarming with security personnel of every stripe. Our documents were checked at nearly every turn. But aside from that—and an hour’s delay—those tragic events left our departure miraculously untouched.
And there it was—our familiar courtyard. The building. The door. My mind, as usual, lagged behind reality. My soul was still squinting in the Roman sun and gazing out over the boats drifting along the Seine.
Once the suitcases were unpacked, the clothes hung, and the fridge decorated with magnets, I felt a swelling pride take over me. I had actually managed to give my mom the trip of her dreams. Granted, I doubt her dream included terrorist attacks, explosions, and gunfire. But hey—mille pardons! Nowhere in my Paris itinerary had I planned for that.
Still, I’m truly glad this trip happened. It was my way of giving at least a little something back to my mom for all the love and support she’s given me—and continues to give.
For the way she raised me—not by drilling lessons into me, but by gently weaving them into my life.
How she taught me that a real man is defined by his actions, and that he always takes responsibility for what he says and does.
How she urged me to think with my own head. To stand up for what I believe in. To eat more vegetables.
No books, no mentors, no life coaches needed—she was the one who taught me that there is no pure black or white, no absolute good or evil. Only facts of life, and how we perceive them.
She taught me to forgive. To keep my soul from hardening. I remember how she warned me against rash decisions and reckless behavior. And I—of course—ignored her, argued, stormed off. Because I was little, immature, and foolish.
But she always understood. Never held it against me. Just kept on loving me.
With a love so fierce, so boundless, that only a mother could possess.
The older I get, the more clearly, I see the moral foundation she gave me—and how invaluable the life lessons she passed on truly are.
I love you, Mom.
Комментарии
Отправить комментарий