Because of the confused oddity of online hotel reservations, Sunday morning we check out of Hôtel Bassano and into our original hotel, Hôtel Royal Elysées. Our new room opens out onto a small balcony overlooking Avenue Victor-Hugo and the Arc de Triomphe. The sun gleams as we take pictures from our perfect iron-gated perch and then walk to the Charles de Gaulle-Etoile Metro and descend on our way to the Musée Rodin.

The musée is tucked behind these enormous bottle green gated doors. Once inside, Le Penseur sits off to the left, layered in front of the Dôme des Invalides and La Tour Eiffel. I walk among the warm rooms, enjoying the gentle breezes from open windows along the way. I anticipate The Kiss, but find myself overtaken by The Eternal Idol, instead.

After two grand crèmes in the cafe and a walk through the garden behind the Hôtel Biron, we set off to take in the exterior of the Louvre and stroll the Jardin des Tuileries. On our silent walk, I pen this postcard in my mind:

We take the Metro to Montmartre and I stop at the souvenirs shops on our way to the Sacré-Couer to spin their racks of black and white postcards, in search of the charming steps etched into my mind since childhood. David told me that I once sent him a postcard of these steps while he was living in Poitiers. When we spot them, without the investment of a long, tedious search, I try to explain to Erika what they mean to me, but it's difficult to interpret the pictures and the dreams that have been locked up inside without context or meaning for so so long.

The setting sun streams through the stained glass windows in the Sacré-Couer as we enter, casting long, colorful shadows on the monotonous stone. After lighting our candles and attempting to visit the closed dome, we leave Montmartre behind for a dinner in the Quartier Latin of chevré and wine and duck and escargot.

We board the Metro again, this time to return to La Tour Eiffel. We buy our tickets for the second deck, as the tip top closed at 10pm. Atop the platform, while framing a young couple alongside the Arc de Triomphe to preserve their moment, I jump and squeal before snapping the photo at the sudden onslaught of *sparkly* Tour lights. From so high up, the city air looks thick with glitter and Erika photographs me hugging La Tour's steel beams.

We walk back to our hotel along the Seine and then up the escalier next to the Palais de Tokyo. At some point I realize that the clock has struck midnight and it's now officially my birthday. While Erika sleeps, I shake off my tipsy adrenaline by writing postcards and occasionally stepping out onto the balcony to look over an unusually quiet Place de l'Etoile. I hear the muffled sounds of sex coming from an adjacent room, and I smile.

Paris, indeed.