I barely sleep. I think it's a birthday thing, the bubbling excitement keeping me edgy and aware, even when my eyes are closed and I'm dreaming in French. We breakfast over coffee and croissants and then make our way to the Arc de Triomphe, climbing the 284 steps to the top. The white light of the sun filters through the haze as we gaze out over l'Etoile in every direction.

We stroll down the Avenue Champs-Elysées, peeking in souvenir shops and tiny cafes. I make Erika stop at the McDonalds to purchase the obligatory fried apple pie, though Erika is convinced that by ordering the Chasson aux Pommes we're going to be presented with a Hot Apple Shoe. Crackled and bubbled, straight from its heavenly deep fried home, it's the perfect birthday treat.

On our way to the Bateaux-Mouches for a lovely boat ride on the Seine, Erika is intrigued by a gourmet grocer called Hediard and spends 20 minutes laboring over the perfect box of chocolates. I, on the other hand, spot my treasure in under a minute: the anise syrup for which I've searched the world over in order to make the most perfect coffee drink: Stella's Midnight Silk Mocha. It's not even noon and I'm blissfully happy.

The view from our boat is unparalleled, but the temperature is frightfully cold. Though there is noise all around, it seems comfortably quiet as we ride 'round the Ile de la Cité and Ile Saint-Louis, transporting ourselves to aristocratic lives inside the elegant mansions that we pass.

But alas, the time has come for Erika to say goodbye. We walk to her bus and I'm instantly saddened by her early departure. We hug and she tells me that she'll talk to me when I return. "You are going to come home, aren't you?" I smile mischievously and wonder that very same thing.

I arrive easily at the Musée Picasso, recognizing the streets from the third short film in Les Rendez-vous de Paris. The musée is small and well-articulated and virtually empty. I slalom in and out of the paintings with a tall man in a black wool coat, but lose him during the blue period, losing myself inside of Mother and Child. Apollinarie wrote, "For one year, Picasso lived this pitiful, sodden blue paint like the bottom of the abyss." It reminds me of my postcards and the words that I can never quite seem to shake loose.

Afterwards, I travel further West to visit Père La Chaise. I neglect to buy a map to find the famous dead and so I simply wander lost among row after row of graves, upturned and stacked into the tiniest spaces. At the sound of the whistle, I hear a shrill French voice urging visitors to exit as the cemetery is closing at 6:00pm. On my way down a long stone staircase, I snap a photograph of a elderly man ascending with a cane. The trees are craggy and the sun is setting and I pray my silent prayer to the god of lucky photography.

After a sunset walk around the Quartier Latin and just one more chocolate and coconut crepe, I make my way back to Montmartre, down a dark and winding street for dinner at Le Bistro de Gala. With its heavy red velvet curtains and clandestine couples whispering across candlelit tables, it's the French restaurant of my dreams. I write birthday wishes in my journal, including more red, red restaurants in the middle of nowhere and a lightheaded blush from a good burgundy wine.

I decide to end my birthday with a walk along the Seine and take the Metro from Montmartre to the Louvre. As I make my way around the glass pyramid and the stilled fountain pools, walking across the desolate Place du Carrousel, a man snaps my photograph and I can only smile and nod. The water is still as I make my way along the stone Quais de la Seine. At midnight exactly, La Tour Eiffel begins its sparking trance and I ascend the stairs at the Place de la Concorde and watch it until the magic ends.

And suddenly I can't stop myself from crossing 8 lanes of heavy traffic in order to take a midnight ride in La Grande Roue. I buy my ticket just before the booth closes, and enter my compartment, joined by two Englishmen. We circle high above the city, glancing out in every direction between our parsed conversation. My birthday secret spills out before us and they invite me for a coffee and a Cognac on the Avenue Champs-Elysées to celebrate.

One short walk and Paris taxi later, the three of us are people-watching from a small, round table in the window of a stylish cafe. I tell them my tales of Paris, of writing over a candlelit dinner and my midnight walk along the Seine, sending their sheltered opinions of American girls topsy-turvy. After words upon words, the cafe closes, and with my stomach burning from the warmth of spontaneity and liquor, I kiss Alex and Richard on both cheeks, bid them each bonne nuit, and fade into the curvy city streets that lead me home.