Paris...oh sweet Paris...

At first I was a little skeptical about Paris. Judging by the lessons I had learned sight-seeing around London ('okay, you've taken a photo of Big Ben, now what?')--I didn't think all of my romantic perceptions of the place garnered from too much movie-watching could possibly be fulfilled. Are there REALLY that many cafes, and that many charming people, and is the light REALLY rose-colored and the air tainted with wisps of la vie en rose?

Yes, yes, absolutely yes. Everything--from the view of the french-doored residential balconies outside the hotel window to the sloping noses of the young to the waiters smoking next to your table--was absolutely perfect and wonderful and tainted with an otherworldliness that is impossible to describe. Even my weeks spent wine-drinking in the villages of Galicia didn't have the romance that Paris had, with their twisting alleys and hooded brasseries and bicycles and tree-shadowed squares.

Swing your morning windows wide, and across the narrow lanes the neighbor's french doors are open to greet you, with their intimate interior views. You could see everything--their taste in paintings, their little tables, their white curtains. It was like walking down an inviting country street of open doors, except on a plane of cloud-walkers.

As soon as I saw this girl and her country-blue peacoat, I knew I wanted to photograph her. I thought I could walk a few paces away and then turn around and photograph her without her knowing, except when I turned she was still watching me. And now we were gazing at each other, no words in common, and my camera was now in hand. I pointed to it, silently asking her for permission, and she nodded with secret flattered pleasure, granting it. She sat curiously as I snapped away and you could tell she felt like a total supermodel, despite her quiet repose. I was thisclose to stealing her away and making her my trip's souvenir.

Being that I stink at guidebooks (give me one and I will give it a cursory flip before becoming overwhelmed and tossing it aside, never to be flipped again), I often take photos of things that are unknown to me. Like this structure on the water: judging by my inadequate hotel map, complete with cartoon landmarks, this could be a justice hall, a house of worship, a single-family home, or the torture chambers of infidels. Who can say, really? Either way, it looked GREAT brooding over the dark waters.

I'm not gonna lie: this was the great dog-missing sign I have ever seen in my life. Maybe because their dog is so obviously a rogue. My guess is they'll find Oscar chillin' on the beach with the ladies, but given I didn't know how to say that in French, I couldn't call and let them know.

Their little girls are both tomboyish and feminine at the same time. How do they achieve such natural grace so young? Is it all that playing around in red rubber papasans?

I know...I know. It's a bicycle in front of a stone wall with climbing flowers. So very predictable of me, as though I'm taking stock photos for an airline vacation magazine. I was going to spray paint it red for an even better photo, but people started approaching as I shook the can, so I had to jet.

I photograph this not because I went to any of these places, but more to indicate what you see every time you turn down a new tiny street. When it came time to eat or drink, the choices were so innumerable as to be impossible. It was like trying to pick the perfect grain of sand on the beach. I wish someone would make a 'best cafes of Paris' guidebook that I could make a point of not-consulting. Unless they already have and it's buried in my suitcase somewhere.

You'll see your server do more of this than actual serving. When you gesture that you'd like another burgundy, they nod toward their cigarette and then indicate you'll get it when you get it. I'm not gonna lie: it was an effective system.

Some sort of body of water with more undefined edifices. It was the light here that intrigued me. I think the sun shines differently on Paris, but that could just be the glasses of burgundy talking.

The Latin Quarter (so named due to its literary history, not its taquerias, much to my disappointment), was full of tiny bookshops with such treasures in the windows. No guacamole to be seen, despite my attempts to find out where the 'latina comida' was.

Ha! This is one I know! The Louvre! I took three photographs and figured that counted as 'doing the Louvre.' Correct me if I'm wrong, but I feel fulfilled just looking at this photo.

Given this was taken on Bastille Street, I figured this was...The Bastille. I had sort of hoped to see Jean's and Jacques's swinging from nooses outside of battered stone walls, but this column was pretty cool, too.

Where the Beats hang out.

And of course, because when in Paris...the Eiffel Tower. The most entertaining part about the tower was the walk to get to it--the vast square resembled a carnival or a street fair with all the vendors hawking their mini blinking Towers in hues of pink and purple and blue, like so many Eiffel discoteques, but once you walked through the flashing jungle, you got here, and saw this, and it was WAY flashier than the miniature versions, although not as thrilling. Rumor had it that the Tower blinks or flashes once every hour, but after thirty-five seconds of waiting, I figured it was time to hit the pavement.

Notre Dame, which strangely resembles a Methodist church in Tulsa, Oklahoma. But you know...in Paris. Rad. Do it, Paris.

Okay, so this last photo is cheating, as it was not actually taken in Paris, it was taken outside the train station back in London. But as soon as I saw this canvas (please click on it to see the images), I stopped in my tracks: 'Quentin!' Yes, all you fellow Roald Dahl diehards out there, all of you who as children fancied yourselves gifted and talented orphans who were tortured by adults who couldn't possibly have been your parents no matter what they called themselves, Quentin Blake, Roald Dahl's illustrator, has created this public work of art, and it is mind-blowingly fantastic. I shamefully took more photos of this art piece than I did of Notre Dame or the Louvre, but REALLY, come ON, it's Quentin BLAKE. You're just lucky I didn't post all seventy images here.