Our first night in Paris, Kelly and I wandered around the streets of Montmarte. We had no idea where we were going, but we knew we wanted to see the Sacré Cœur.
It was that great, hot weather that comes right before a heavy rain. The clouds were just starting to roll in when we climbed up the hill. Traveling all day had left us exhausted, and we huffed and puffed all the way to the top.
Oh but that view! It was so worth it.
It was getting dark, but we decided to take the long way around the hill back to the apartment anyways. We found a corner store where the owner spoke only French and Portuguese, and Kelly managed to communicate in broken Spanish and French that we wanted some cheap red wine. We toted two bottles and a couple packages of chocolate covered waffles up to our little rented apartment and worked our way through all of it. There was no TV — just French techno playing on the radio. We opened all of the windows and leaned over the edges of the tiny balcony to watch the crowds meander through the newly damp streets.
We got stinking drunk off of that wine, and talked until the bottles were empty. I know we laughed, I know we cried, and I know that we both got terrible stomachaches from those painfully sweet waffles. But the end of the night is still a little hazy in my mind.
It was perfect — the kind of night I’d want to sentimentally share with my daughters when they’re daydreaming about booking cheap flights to faraway places.