I knew I was going to like Paris but I had no idea I would like it as much as I did.  It is difficult to describe and my attempts all begin to sound like a pulp novel description of my perfect woman:

"She was beautiful.  Quiet, and energetic but not rushed. She was of mixed race, in a way that resulted in a conflicted but determined-to-evolve identity. She looked best at night but was comfortable with her self in the daytime. She smelled of good food, sex and tea. She smelled good. Sensual. Her expression was experienced but not jaded..."

You see? Paris made me write that garbage. It had an impact.

We left Atlanta the night before Thanksgiving and enjoyed Turkey Day walking along the Seine. Our first sight of Notre Dame made Marissa cry. Anyone who has been to Paris and has seen Notre Dame in the evening from Pont De Sully, or Pont Marie, or any other Pont for that matter, will understand.

We rented an apartment in the Marais. A beautifully restored place in an old building with a rambling staircase and a tiny elevator. It had a stereo and we spent evenings listening to Radionova, drinking wine from the bottle and eating pate and cheese from the Monoprix and macarons from Laduree.

We walked for miles and miles. One day we toured Pere Lachaise cemetery, only to walk all the way back to our apartment just up from Place de la Bastille. We stopped at some bar and a lovely, slightly sad young woman (I swear to God all Parisian women are lovely and sad) served us beer and tartines, taking a break from reading Harry Potter to do so. We were the only ones there (it was 3PM and nobody was eating but us, having walked until we were almost dead), listening to more great music and getting a buzz from beer, fatigue and the general aura of loveliness.

We picked up amazing food-to-go on Rue Cler: duck with peaches and sauteed veal so delicious I am getting misty just thinking about it. We washed that down with Beaujolais Nouveau (again from the bottle) even though everyone, and I mean everyone - from the 19 year old clerk at the wine store to the old guard at Ste. Catherine - said it was "no good this year".  Let me tell you something, drinking Beaujolais Nouveau while eating sauteed veal in a chic Paris apartment with your sexy wife is way better than no good.

One night we ate at a huitrerie - a place that sells only oysters. Can you imagine, a place that only sells oysters? We walked in off the street to be engulfed by the sweet, funky smell of the sea, and we finished off two dozen of the freshest mollusks I've had since picking them up off the Hood Canal shoreline in Washington State.

On other nights we ate falafel, or crepes, or both - walking the streets, taking in everything.

It wasn't all food. We visited the Musee D'Orsay, the Louvre, the Pompidou - all of them obviously great for their own reasons. We visited Notre Dame, taking fabulous pictures of gargoyles and cityscapes, and St. Sulpice, where we heard an organ recital. Hearing a master organist improvise in this big spooky cathedral was as close to a religious experience as I have had in 20 years.

Oh, and we made out for a while on the banks of the Seine. Paris is like that.