Something we thoroughly enjoy when we travel, is being lost. Getting utterly lost in the neighborhoods, being forced to encounter locals. First, book a hostel somewhere near the Père Lachaise Cemetery, or wherever, don’t be precise, that’s just where we ended up. Second, drink lots of wine, eat lots of crusty bread, all bought from a little neighborhood deli where they do not speak any english.
Drink the wine, in the street. Yes, we walked down the cobblestone streets, bottle of red in hand, biting bread and some mysterious cured meat along the way. This is our walk to that famous cemetery, where I got to see Jim Morrison’s grave and my love got to see Oscar Wilde’s.
This was a romantic little stroll here. I carved my love’s name in a tree, well her initials and mine in a heart. We imagined returning there one day to find that exact tree. I literally cried at Jim Morrison’s grave…not even at it, but approaching it. I was overwhelmed with emotions, purely nostalgia, and bittersweet. It reminded me of my high school years, and the music that got me through them. This is one sight we got to see.
However here is a short list of the major one’s we failed to see; The Louvre, the Pantheon, Notre Dame… What we did see though, doesn’t make me feel bad, or like we missed something (don’t crucify me here please). We managed to have a great time, actually we had a very intense late-night alcohol infused argument throughout the streets. It started at a bar we wandered upon after a day of wandering, I think we were trying to find Notre Dame.
At this great little bar, there was a 3 piece band playing. We had a heated conversation about life and ideals. This unfolded into the streets. After many encounters with random late-night local folk (including but not limited to, public urination) we were heading towards our hostel, maybe. Here was a quiet neighborhood street, and right away there is yelling in French, some woman screaming to shut the hell up, and banging on her window. The stupid americans, here in paris, the most romantic city, yelling and fighting. There was a point in time where I had lost her, and was literally sprinting around the blocks, heaving for breath. I would scream her name, I was beyond scared. Finally I find her, with two French guys as escorts, walking down the sidewalk, bottles in hands. A wave of relief. After a long talk with the two gentlemen about how what we were feeling and going through is love, true love, we continued wandering homeward (hostelbound). There are many more details, including a fateful breakfast of orange juice, espresso, and croissants. In the end though, all that matters is this..that was the most romantic part. The high-strung emotions, and passionate break ups and make ups. The insecurity and “without-a-net” feeling of it all.