Chasing Paris

Since moving to the Netherlands just a few months earlier, my bucket list had quietly, but completely, rearranged itself. Places that once felt far away suddenly seemed possible. And sitting right at the top was Paris.

During our first long school break, we packed up the car and made the four-hour drive to the City of Light. I had built this trip up in my mind for years—there was so much I wanted to see, so much I wanted to feel—and I was determined not to waste a single moment.

After a short walk and a slightly confusing introduction to the Metro system, we found ourselves immersed in real, everyday Parisian life. That alone felt like an experience. The Metro quickly became one of my favorite parts of the trip—not just for how easily it carried us across the city, but for what happened inside the train cars. Every so often, someone would step aboard—an accordion player, a guitarist—and begin to perform. Their music filled the space in a way that felt both raw and magical. For a few coins, we were given something far more valuable: a moment. I made sure I always had change ready.

We arrived just in time for lunch, settling into a tiny corner café that felt exactly like something out of a movie.

Not wanting to linger too long, we quickly set off for our first stop: Père Lachaise Cemetery, where Jim Morrison is buried.It may sound strange to some, but I’ve always loved visiting cemeteries. There’s a quiet peace there—stories written in stone, names and dates that hint at entire lives once lived. Père Lachaise was unlike any cemetery I had ever seen. Instead of simple headstones, many families had elaborate tombs—small stone houses, really—where loved ones could visit, leave flowers, and say a prayer.

The pathways twisted and turned like a maze, each corner revealing something new. I wandered, completely absorbed, until I realized I had run out of time before finding Jim Morrison’s grave. When closing time comes, they don’t gently suggest you leave—they insist. So, I left with unfinished business… and a promise to return.

That evening, we headed to see the Eiffel Tower.

My daughter had one simple wish: she wanted to see it at night. And somehow, we arrived at the perfect moment—just as dusk began to settle over the city and the lights flickered on. Standing beneath it, I felt incredibly small in the best possible way. The tower stretched endlessly into the sky, more breathtaking than I had imagined. It calls to you, even from miles away—but up close, it’s something else entirely.

Still, as beautiful as it was, my favorite sight that night wasn’t the tower. It was my daughter’s face. Pure joy.

Over the next few days, we filled our time with everything Paris had to offer. We dressed up for the Moulin Rouge, shopped until our feet begged us to stop, lingered over long meals at sidewalk cafés with wine in hand, and wandered aimlessly through streets lined with impossibly beautiful architecture.

But there were still a couple of things left on my list.

We had been warned that the Louvre wasn’t something you “do” in a day—it’s something you return to again and again. So we made a plan: one section at a time. On this visit, we had one goal—the Mona Lisa.

As we approached, it became clear that we were not the only ones with that plan. A sea of people gathered around her, all trying to catch a glimpse. And in that moment, I realized something unexpected—my time navigating crowded grocery stores in Holland had prepared me well for this exact situation.

I made my way forward (gracefully, of course… or at least I’d like to think so), offering polite “excuse me’s” as I inched closer. And then, suddenly, there she was.

Smaller than I expected. Quieter. But captivating.

And yes… she smiled.

On our final day, we walked along the Seine, stopping to browse art from the street vendors lining the riverbanks.

It felt slow and dreamy, like Paris was gently letting us go. But there was one last stop I had been saving.

We turned a corner, and there it stood—Notre Dame.

Magnificent. Timeless. Watching over the city with a quiet strength. The intricate details, the gargoyles perched along the edges—it felt almost unreal. Like stepping into history.

Inside, the air shifted. It was still, reverent. I dipped my fingers into the holy water and made the sign of the cross, something I’ve done in churches around the world. Then I lit two candles—one for my parents, and one for all the unborn children in the world. It’s a small ritual I carry with me wherever I go.

In that moment, everything felt still. Full. Peaceful.

And just like that, Paris had given me exactly what I didn’t even know I needed.