Paris, France

Mel, Steph and I went to Paris and we did everything. Everything. Well, except all the stuff that my friends told me to do, but I have to reserve a little reason to return to Paris. That’s my excuse. That, and sore legs.

We suffered an appalling early start: the Eurostar left King’s Cross at 6:30am. I somehow managed to miss the whole tunnel part, possibly because my eyes were shut. Once in Paris, we headed straight for the Eiffel Tower, bags and all. It’s bronze. I never remember that. The view from the second level was breathtaking; I remember that much, at least.

After dumping our stuff at the (very cushy) hotel, we struck out for a lower sort of tourist attraction: the Parisian catacombs. The warning signs out the front were fairly foreboding – ‘not for people of a nervous disposition’ – but the length of the queue was scarier. To while away the time, I went and fetched some chocolat chaud and pains au chocolat: the perfect remedy for drizzle, fear and queueing.

The catacombs themselves were about as morbid and creepy as you might expect. And they stretched on forever! Half of Paris is built on bones. We wandered past a total of six million ex-Parisians – all arranged in decorative (if monotonous) style along a dark labyrinthine tunnel. I kept having visions of skeletal hands reaching out and grabbing my ankles à la Carrie. Nice.

We emerged into evening gloom (it was about 4 o’clock) and headed over to the Arc de Triomphe. The Champs Elysées was stuffed with people, busy busy, especially closer to the Place de la Concorde, where market stalls lined both sides of the street. It was a fantastic Christmas market, but perhaps a bit too popular. We bought our crêpes and struggled along against the tourist tide.

By this point, we were all becoming a little exhausted, so we headed down to the Place de la Concorde to find our bus home. This was something of a trial. We’d been feeling pretty good about our decision to use the Parisian bus service to get around, right up until we realised how bloody hard it was to locate bus stops. We spent a million years trudging up and down the Champs Elysées, searching fruitlessly. We found the stop right as tensions reached the ‘homicidal’ range. And we got home. And we watched Miss France on TV until we all felt a bit better.

Sunday was just as crazy busy as the day before. Having managed to get to Paris on the first weekend of the month, we found that we’d stumbled upon free Sunday entry into all major museums - quelle chance! Taking full advantage of this, we hit up the Loeuvre – here, da Vinci; there, Napoleon – and then the Conciergerie, which seemed to be hosting some strange sort of art exhibition on the theme of animals. I have never seen such a fine unicorn pelt.

Next up was the Notre Dame: just as gothic and monumental as I remembered it. There was even some organ music accompanying us up the aisles, adding to the fantastic Victor Hugo atmosphere.

After feasting on some baguettes in a nearby café, we caught the bus up to Montmartre and somehow hauled ourselves up the killer stairs. Mel barely survived. But all was worth it when we reached the Sacre Coeur and its spectacular city views. (I didn’t faint once inside, to the sorrow of nuns everywhere.) We then explored the touristy bits of Montmartre – berets, paintings, hawkers everwhere – and came across a Salvadore Dali exhibition. Loved his Alice in Wonderland stuff. Just as surreal as advertised.

Crêpes followed, and then a brief visit to the Paris Opera House. We returned to the Gare du Nord, and there ended our Parisian adventure: back on the Eurostar with one last baguette, half-crippled by the endless walking, and masters of the Paris bus system.

Fin.