Ah, Paris: the City of Light, of enchantment, of legendary art and envious street fashion; of iconic monuments next to even more iconic monuments, delicious Nutella crepes and savory baguettes; and, for me, the city of love.

Even before I knew about Paris the city, countless movies, music, and works of art had taught me about Paris the Dream, this wistful, romantic land that was beckoning me to visit.  I wanted to head its calls, but I didn’t just want to ‘go to Paris’…  I wanted to be in love in Paris.

Luckily for me, Bob and I made it to Paris together. It was late November, rainy and cold, and perfect for a love affair on the Seine.

We filled our days with all the touristy things, we walked through museums holding hands and chatted over coffee  (I had hot chocolate) in cafes. We ate really late dinners, just like the locals and snacked on crepes along the river. It was so romantic, I was kind of making myself sick by how cute we were!

On our last night, we took a stroll down to The Eiffel Tower with a bottle of wine and our camera. We had just finished eating fondue and taken a night sightseeing cruise. It was nice to be alone- in a city with millions of people, it’s hard to feel like you have a space of your own, but somehow under the tower that night- we were all alone.

We spent hours sitting there, recounting our fabulous days in Paris, and while we were picking out our favorite parts, a group of people walked near by. There were about 10 of them, loud and drunk. One of the guys started walking towards us and asked about the tower. Half annoyed, half flattered that he thought be might be locals (beer googles or not), Bob began to answer the questions. Just as he started talking, the kid bent over and threw up everywhere. Immediately starting to gag myself, I had never seen that much puke before. The action stopped Bob mid-word. We were both so stunned and grossed out that we quickly gathered our stuff and moved away from the kid.

And, then all of a sudden, we both broke out into laughter. The kind of laugh that hurts, that starts deep inside and seems like it’s never going to end.

It was there, in the picture perfect dream that I realized that, sometimes, even Paris isn’t romantic.