Home base for the next three nights - the charming Hotel Familia. Conveniently located just a block away from the Seine in the heart of the buzzing Latin Quarter.
Say what? No honking yellow cabs careening down Broadway. No NYPD sirens screeching in the background. No blazing neon signs proclaiming the crossroads of the universe. Why this might actually be, like, relaxing.
The lively student quarter where future ingénieurs study intently so they can meet the almost impossible demands of that brutal 35 hour week waiting on the other side of finals.
The cuisine of kings. Which is probably why ol' Louis nearly blew out the picture frame in the Versailles portrait gallery.
Time to take a walk on the intellectual side. I'll meet you at the corner of Descartes and Marie Curie. No wonder they say this place has culture.
Or it had culture, until the loud mouthed yanks showed up to ridicule the simple pleasures in life - like sitting in a cafe for hours on end every day - as gross inefficiencies of a broken system.
Funny how quickly said ridicule ends when confronted with a steaming pot of French press coffee and a freshly baked croissant. Maybe that 6am alarm won't be missed after all.
Room with a view. A glorious late spring day is perfect for whetting the appetite for a day of exploring. Or a second baguette in Rock's case.
And they're off! The start of an epic 15km stroll through the annals of time. Mei enjoys being in a country where she isn't the oldest thing on the street.
Darn it, in a critical blunder Rock fails to dress appropriately for the Notre Dame sweatshirt in front of real Notre Dame photo op. That was going to be the killer joke in this post. I guess it's back to guillotine one liners.
The meandering Seine takes it all in stride. The pomp of royal processions, the crimson blood of revolution, the brushstrokes of Monet searching for the perfect light. And yet another bloody tourist preening on the banks.
Mei does her best to prove she's not the ol' hunchback.
Speaking of hunchbacks, here's a likely candidate.
Monet Rock is not.
Notre Dame in all her glory. No wonder all distances in France are measured from the point directly in front of her towering facade. It's not a bad spot to call the center of the known world.
But no time to rest. You don't do 10 sights in one day by standing around. Actually you do, if you're not cheap like Rock and actually fork over for a 2 euro metro ticket.
Rock keeps a hopeful eye out for the next boulangerie pit stop.
Still no boulangerie, but a kind of cool fountain is the consolation prize.
Ah, Paris. When a Manhattanite starts a sentence with "you know what, this is almost better than..." you know you've found something truly special.
These bad boys ruled the waves before behemoth Batobuses started lugging tourists up and down the Seine a thousand at a time.
Err... lose the map dude, it's like behind you.
Mei doesn't need a map to spot out a prime photo op.
Supposedly this is the most romantic spot in Paris, at least according to Lonely Planet. Which means Rock's "let's get a stinking move on, this isn't France... oh wait..." gripe was particularly out of place.
First view of the mighty Louvre. Also first view of the mighty Louvre ticket queue. Actually it's not too bad. On a day like this, who wants to be in a stuffy museum lining up to see the world's most over-rated sort-of-smile.
Having said that, over-rated sort-of-smiles command a big premium on the art black market. Lay a finger on Mona and Massacres of the Triumvirate in the Richelieu wing will have a run for its money.
Unique forms in Continuity and Space? Err.. wrong museum, wrong continent. Must just be a showboating tourist.
Those who think Pei's glass pyramids are an affront to civilized taste should go back to reading The Da Vinci Code.
When the outside of your museum looks so cool, how do you ever entice people to go in?
Rock is still waiting for the long-awaited unveiling of the Louvre's latest blockbuster: Four Seasons of the Regent Theater, Palmerston North, Cahan c. 1998.
Now there's one queue Mei is more than happy to stand in. Mona who? Is she on Facebook?
While Mei is out foraging for patisseries, Rock is busy chasing... uhm... artistic expression. Hey, it's not my fault sans clothing is the way the masters chose to articular the perfect embodiment of the female form.
The problem with priceless works from the Renaissance is you can't eat them.
The ritzy Rivioli Avenue is the perfect spot for a little window shopping. The problem with window shopping is that it only remains as such when you have the discipline to remain on the outside...
...nope, didn't think so.
Five croissants later and it's time for another sight. The problem for readers of this blog is that they get the sights, but without the croissants.
Move over Park Avenue. These cobblestones were watching the rise and fall of empires long before you were even a clearing in the woods.
Mei on the Avenue des Steroids. She'll need them because next stop is the top of that arch over yonder.
The view from the top of the Arc de Triomphe. Views don't come much better than this. Actually they do - try the Eiffel Tower doofus.
Mercifully, the new city is confined to the distance. Nothing ruins a famous tower quicker than being the shortest building on the block. Just ask Tokyo.
Montmartre looms in the distance both literally, and figuratively for those who are so bored they'll read even this blog. And let's face it, that's all of you.
Champs from on high. In a few short months the maillot jaune will be triumphantly leading the peloton through this hallowed gate.
Paris, the city of love. It doesn't get much more romantic than a fight over who gets to eat the bigger side of a delectable heart pastry.
Forget the Champs-Élysées, here's the real deal. Ingénieur et phyicist, even without Google Translate I think I can guess what that means. Try Legend!
You thought it would never arrive didn't you. Well so did we. Turns out things are a bit more spread out than on the map...
Two jumps in one country! This is indeed high praise.
Errr yes... when in front of one of the great sights in world travel, one naturally has the inclination to remove one's shoes to dangle in front of the camera.
Eiffel Tower. Meh. Salmon Parfait. Now you're talking! Or would be talking, if you weren't already stuffing yourself on Parisian delights.
On the map this road didn't look quite so long. Perhaps that's why the jump has devolved into a weary arm wave.
Clearly not everyone in France spends all day on strike.
Vive la France!
A motorbike? In Parisian traffic? I think not. Rock has trouble enough with four wheels. But that's a story for another day. Or perhaps year at the rate this thing is going.
Off the beaten tourist trail. Which probably explains why there are too few patisseries for Rock's tastes.
Mei got the Aston Martin; Rock gets relegated to whatever you call this. There's a metaphor in there somewhere.
Rock discovers the hard way that this isn't a drinking fountain.
The Saint Germain quarter is buzzing with outdoor cafes that spill out into the narrow streets on a glorious spring day. Considered to be the intellectual center of gravity of the city, it should come as no surprise that J00ster was right at home.
Weighty discourse on the nature of life and liberty can wait. There are deeper matters to consider, like what flavors to pick.
Mei tries to straighten out her Bordeaux from her Burgundy. When in doubt drink both. It works every time.
How very provencal. A hot pot of rabbit and seasonal vegetables is just what one needs to refuel after a big day on the town.
No one does duck like the French. Hang on, Excellent Dumpling in Chinatown would beg to differ.
No one does bright red like the Rock Lobster. Hang on, Jared would beg to differ.
Le Petit Pontoise. Recommended by Lonely Planet. Recommended by Michelin. Recommended by J00ster. Doesn't get any higher than that.
Paris by night. A magical end to a long day. Ironically it took longer to relive it through writing this blog than it did the first time around. One can't rush greatness.
They don't call it the City of Light for nothing. Although one suspects when they came up with the moniker they were talking about something a little bit more romantic than an overloaded Batobus blazing a incendiary path down the Seine so that the popcorn tourists can get a few night snaps.
