I was working another rotation in the Middle East—same dust, same heat, same fluorescent lights humming over stale coffee. The kind of place where adventure feels like a rumor. I needed an escape, and I wasn’t about to do another solo wander through Europe, lost in my own thoughts and wine-stained journal pages. Not this time.
So I called my sister.
“Anywhere in the world,” I told her. “Name it.”
I had Greece in mind. Islands, grilled octopus, and ouzo-fueled nights. But the news was a mess—riots, geopolitical tension, and something about Russia flexing too close for comfort. We pivoted.
“Brazil,” she said.
God, I love her ambition. But I had to remind her—Brazil, for your first trip abroad? That’s like skydiving before you’ve even looked out the window of a plane. Too big. Too raw. Too beautiful and brutal all at once. She needed something more gentle, more postcard-perfect. A place with croissants, not chaos.
“France?” she offered.
Now we’re talking.
Paris—equal parts romance and rot, where beauty lives next to grime and history whispers through every alley. I booked the flights that night. No turning back. The City of Light was calling, and this time, we’d answer together.
I had to get there first. Land, decompress, and make sure I was ready to receive her. Paris wasn’t the kind of place you stumble into; it deserved a proper entrance. I flew in from Dubai, passing through Venice—Marco Polo Airport, a name far more romantic than the reality of plastic chairs and overpriced espresso.
I reached out to some friends up in Aviano. Old crew. Familiar names that once meant something. But time’s a bastard, and people move on. The warmth you remember fades, and eventually, the calls go unanswered. No hard feelings—just the way life moves.
When I landed in Paris, customs was its usual cold efficiency. There are two ways into the city from Charles de Gaulle: the train or a taxi. I took one look at the train crowd—backpacks, confusion, stairs—and said screw it. The taxi cost me $50, and I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t there to save money; I was there to feel something again.
The hotel was a joke by American standards. Paris doesn’t care about your square footage. The rooms are tight, the beds questionable, but the windows open wide and the street noise below is its own kind of lullaby. Still, I had to upgrade. My sister was coming, and I needed a room that said, “Welcome to France,” not “Try not to touch the walls.”
I stocked the fridge. Local wine, cheap aperitifs, whatever looked interesting. I was still drinking heavy back then—daily, ritualistically. Not to forget anything, just to slow it all down. After months in the Middle East, working twelve and a half hour days, seven days a week, you don’t just stroll into Paris and exhale. You unwind like an old spring—creaky, uneven, but grateful for the release.
Athy would be landing soon. The adventure was about to begin. But first, a drink.
Eventually, she came.
I rode out to the airport to meet her. There she was—duffle bag slung over her shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd like a traveler and not yet a tourist. She looked a little out of place, but that’s part of the charm when you’re new to the world. You’re not supposed to blend in right away. Paris isn’t judging—it’s too busy being Paris.
We made our way back into the city. I’d booked a room with two beds and a view. The kind of view that makes the room seem bigger than it is. The shower, though—let’s just say it wasn’t made for humans. It was more like a converted closet with plumbing. I had to crouch to get in, twist like a circus act just to rinse off. But it worked. Kind of. That’s Paris: it doesn’t care if you’re comfortable, just whether you’re paying attention.
We sat down, cracked open a bottle from the fridge, and started talking plans. I had ideas. Places I wanted to show her. Not the tourist trail, but the stuff that made the city sing. We didn’t need to overthink it. Walk, eat, drink, repeat.
But to do any of it, we needed to get on the subway.
Welcome to Paris.
We started by walking—always the best way to meet a city. Toward the center, past cafés warming up for the day, past tourists holding maps they didn’t need. Eventually, we reached Notre-Dame. We stood there, took it in, nodded, and moved on. Didn’t go in.
In retrospect? That was a mistake.
You always think there’s time. You’ll come back tomorrow, next trip, next year. But years later, we watched the cathedral burn on the news. A part of history turned to smoke. That’s when you learn—save nothing for later. If you can see it today, do it. Tomorrow doesn’t care about your plans.
Not far from there, we looked for another church—less famous, more intimate. Sainte-Chapelle? No. The Conciergerie. That’s the one. A real dungeon dressed up in Gothic stone, where Marie Antoinette spent her final days before the blade. They kept much of it as it was—dim, heavy, honest. You could still feel the cold in the air, the weight of waiting. This wasn’t just sightseeing. This was memory, preserved in limestone.
We walked the Seine, watched boats drift under old bridges, and let the city unfold. But eventually, Athy got hungry. Her first full day in France was wearing on her.
So, Italian food.
Of all the things to eat in Paris, we chose something familiar. Not because we were afraid, but because comfort matters when you’re far from home. I knew it wouldn’t be Olive Garden. No breadsticks. No endless salad. This was the real deal—tight tables, loud conversation, pasta with backbone.
Athy ordered something safe. Her first real meal in France was Italian.
And honestly? It was perfect.
I was told—by a friend of a friend, a flight steward with United Airlines and the kind of guy who knows where to go when you’re off-duty in Paris—“Go to the Luxembourg Gardens.”
So we did.
It’s not Versailles, and that’s the point. No tourist cattle drive, no marathon hike. Just quiet elegance in the middle of the city. Sculpted trees, fountains whispering in the breeze, old men playing chess while pigeons pretend they don’t care. We walked, we wandered, we absorbed. Paris at half-speed. Exactly what we needed.
But hours later, the calm was replaced by a familiar sound—Athy’s stomach rumbling.
She was hungry. Not for culture. For food.
That’s when it happened. She asked for Subway.
Yeah, that Subway. Sandwiches, chips, the safe American fallback.
I didn’t blame her. When everything around you is foreign, even a mediocre sandwich chain can feel like a warm blanket. But the moment she bit in, her face changed. Confused. Curious. “It’s… different.”
Of course it was. The bread didn’t taste the same. The chips weren’t quite right. The Coke had real sugar—actual sugar, not the chemical cocktail we’re used to back home. Europe doesn’t do food like we do. Even the fast stuff is slower, more honest. Athy was stunned. Mind blown by a sandwich.
And that’s the magic of travel. You expect awe at the Louvre. You don’t expect it at Subway.
As the light faded, we drifted back to the hotel. The buzz of the city softening behind us. Tomorrow, we’d meet up with one of her high school friends—a slice of home crossing paths with our Parisian detour. But tonight, it was enough to just be still. Let the jet lag do its thing. Let the city breathe.
We met her friend on the steps of Sacré-Cœur, that gleaming white basilica perched like a crown over Montmartre. It’s the kind of place that feels like it belongs on a postcard—or a movie set. And for Athy, it was everything. A high school friend studying abroad in Paris? That’s the kind of subplot you only get in coming-of-age films. It added something cinematic to the trip. Real-life Emily in Paris stuff, minus the clichés and bad French.
The three of us stood on that hill, the city laid out below us like a promise. I was the older brother, the third wheel, the accidental chaperone. But I didn’t mind. This was her moment. I was just the one who got her there.
We wandered up into the church, hushed and glowing. Even if you’re not religious, it grabs you. The air feels thick with something older than belief—maybe history, maybe memory. The marble, the mosaics, the silence—it all hits different when you’re not racing through it. I half-joked about the steps being from John Wick 4. You remember that final scene, right? The endless stairs, the beatdown? Maybe it was here. Paris blurs fiction and reality so effortlessly, who’s to say?
Eventually, stomachs growled. Time to eat.
I was buying. That much was certain.
So we went French.
No safe choices this time. No Italian reruns or American sandwich chains. We leaned into the country we were in. Cheese that didn’t come in plastic. Bread with real crunch. Duck confit that whispered its secrets to your taste buds. I don’t remember everything we ate, but I remember how it felt—like we’d finally stopped being tourists and started being in Paris.
That night, it wasn’t just a meal. It was a chapter.
Her friend led us to this little open-air restaurant tucked on a side street—no neon signs, no laminated menus, just worn chairs, real tablecloths, and that soft clatter of cutlery and conversation that only happens when the food is honest and the wine is flowing.
We sat outside, under the glow of heat lamps and fading sunlight, and finally—finally—got a taste of what French cooking was really about. This wasn’t tourist fare. This was the kind of place where the waiter doesn’t rush, the courses come when they come, and time folds in on itself.
I ordered a bottle of red. A proper one. And at that point in my life, I could—and often did—polish off the whole thing solo. I was halfway to toasted before the entrées even arrived. Not sloppy, just loose enough to let the city wash over me.
And then came the snails.
Escargot—the dish everyone jokes about, turns their nose up at, swears they’d never try. But you should. You really should. They arrive swimming in garlic and butter, tucked into little ceramic graves. You scoop them out with this weird metal tool, and the first bite… it’s not what you expect. Earthy. Like mushrooms dressed in garlic armor. Pure comfort.
Athy was brave. She took a bite. Made a face. Took another. She liked it. I saw that spark. I was proud of her—not just for trying snails, but for leaning into the moment.
After a while, I let the conversation drift past me. Her and her friend were catching up, laughing, reminiscing. I didn’t need to talk. I just sat there, sipping the last of the wine, content. I wasn’t in Paris alone. I was watching something beautiful unfold.
We said our goodbyes and made our way back to the hotel, the streets a little quieter, the night a little softer.
Athy was happy.
And me?
I was just glad to see people happy.
I try to catch what I can along the way. I’ve never been the type to plan every hour, but there are certain things you don’t skip—touchstones you make time for. The Paris Opera House was one of them. That grand, gold-trimmed temple to drama and elegance. I’d always wanted to see it in person. You can take tours—for a price, of course—but this trip, I had other things locked in. Another time, maybe.
We emerged from the subway into the pulse of the city. Paris doesn’t ease you in—it throws you into the deep end. You climb those metro steps and bam: history, architecture, life happening in real time.
We walked from the stop toward the Louvre. One of those walks where the city just unfolds in front of you like it’s performing for your arrival. I had booked us a guided tour—not to be fancy, but to skip the line and get the real story behind all the stone faces and oil paint. You don’t just wander into the Louvre and “figure it out.” That place will swallow you whole if you don’t have a plan.
The guide was there, waiting. A fast pass to civilization’s greatest hits. I could see Athy’s eyes wide, absorbing centuries in a single hallway. That’s the thing about travel—you’re not just seeing things. You’re feeling them. And that walk from the metro to the museum? That was the prelude. The city setting the stage.
I’d seen it on TV. In movies. In art books stacked on coffee tables I never actually read. The Louvre—this wasn’t just a museum. It had star power. The kind of place that carries weight, even if you’ve never set foot in it.
The Mona Lisa lived here. That smirk, that guarded gaze—you don’t even have to like art to know her. She’s a celebrity behind glass.
We made our way in, past the security, under that glass pyramid that juts out like a modern scar on ancient stone. You catch just the top of it from outside, but from within, it’s like stepping through a portal. A strange, beautiful contradiction. Steel and glass above, marble and oil below.
The museum itself was cool—not just in temperature, but in presence. Even the air felt cultured. This was a cathedral for humanity’s creativity. Every corner whispered with centuries of expression, obsession, ego, and divinity. And we were in it.
Wandering its halls, you don’t just see art—you feel small in the best way. Like you’ve joined a conversation that’s been going on for thousands of years, and for once, you’re not in a rush to speak.
I couldn’t believe what we were seeing.
There she was—Venus de Milo. No arms. No head. Just defiance in marble form. A woman carved out of stone who, despite missing pieces, still commanded the room. We stood there, quiet. It hits you different when you’re in front of it. Not a photo. Not a slide from art history class. Her.
Around the corner—Saint John the Baptist. A Da Vinci, but not the one everyone lines up for. Subtle, shadowed, almost smirking. One of those paintings that feels like it’s watching you back. Not a crowd-pleaser, but it didn’t need to be. It was layered and strange and brilliant.
And then, the chaos of the French Revolution. Massive canvases telling stories soaked in blood, fire, and idealism. The kind of art that doesn’t just hang—it roars. You remember the dates, the names, the guillotines from school. But here, they weren’t just facts. They were textures, color, oil, and brushstrokes. Real.
Everything I learned in textbooks, tucked between exams and note margins, was suddenly standing in front of me. Solid. Breathing. Eternal.
It was like waking up in the middle of a story you didn’t realize you were already part of.
This museum—The Louvre—was the gift that kept on giving. Every turn down those endless halls felt like stumbling into a piece of history you didn’t expect. The kind that makes you stop mid-step and whisper, “No way… that’s really it?”
And then we came upon it—Napoleon’s Coronation.
A beast of a painting. Floor to ceiling, opulent and alive. You could almost hear the trumpets. Napoleon placing the crown on his own head, because of course he did. That wasn’t ego—that was branding. This wasn’t just a painting. It was propaganda with brushstrokes. French history at its most dramatic, and we were standing in the same room.
Then came The Wedding at Cana. Massive. Beautiful. So big it felt like a movie set frozen in oil. But as impressive as it was, we knew what was behind us.
The Mona Lisa.
The crowd thickened. You could feel the hum, the anticipation, like standing in line for a roller coaster you’ve heard about your whole life. Small room. Thick glass. Barriers. Security. And there she was.
Tiny. Underwhelming in size. Overwhelming in presence.
That smirk. That quiet confidence. That look like she knows something about you that you don’t.
You wait a lifetime to see her—and when you do—it’s not about what she looks like. It’s about where you are, who you’re with, and what it took to stand in front of her.
And for a moment, in that crowded room filled with cameras and hushed voices, it all made sense.
When you walk into that room, you know.
There she is—The Mona Lisa. No guessing, no buildup needed. The crowd tells you. The energy shifts. You’re not just walking into a gallery; you’re entering a shrine. She’s the most famous painting of our generation. A cultural icon. Not because she’s the biggest or the most colorful—but because she’s her.
She was stolen once. Lifted straight from the Louvre and later returned, and in that act, her legend was born. Not just a portrait, but a myth. Immortalized not just in art, but in heist stories, pop culture, and conspiracy theories. She’s been everything from high art to t-shirt graphics. And there she was—right in front of us.
Smaller than expected. Tucked behind thick glass and roped off like royalty. You couldn’t get close enough to see the brushwork. Couldn’t trace the strokes of Da Vinci’s hand. But that didn’t matter. Just being in her presence felt… important. Like ticking off a box on the life list.
This—this—was the reason I came inside. And it was worth it.
But art waits for no appetite. Not long after, Athy tugged at my arm. “I’m hungry.”
The Louvre cafeteria wasn’t going to cut it. Not for her. So we left, the museum slowly vanishing behind us as we stepped back into the noise and breath of the city.
Looking back, all it did was leave me with more to explore next time. More wings. More paintings. More pieces of history waiting in the quiet.
I’ll be back.
I hauled my professional DSLR and a heavy tripod all the way across the world—because some things, you just have to shoot properly. It wasn’t just about snapshots. This was my craft, my way of absorbing a place, slowing it down frame by frame.
That night, back at the hotel, we didn’t just crash. We headed out again, walked beneath the quiet Parisian sky, streetlights flickering like they’d been waiting just for us. Destination: the Arc de Triomphe.
You’ve seen it before—in movies, in history books, framed in the background of someone else’s vacation. But nothing prepares you for standing in front of it. It’s more than stone. It’s memory carved into architecture. Massive, proud, unapologetically French.
I set up the tripod right there along the Champs-Élysées. Clicked the shutter. Waited. Long exposure. Let the cars blur into red and white trails of light. Let the night speak through the lens.
This was my kind of moment—quiet, patient, creative. Athy nearby, the city humming around us. The air had that cool weight of something unforgettable.
I wasn’t disappointed. Not for a second.
These weren’t just photos. They were proof. That we were here. That this happened. And they’d outlive the trip. Outlive the hangovers, the train rides, the missed turns and tired feet.
They were mine to keep. Forever.
I had a reservation—a real one—for a restaurant inside the Eiffel Tower. Not just dinner, but the kind of moment you build a whole trip around. Fancy clothes, table with a view, the whole cinematic experience.
But life, like Paris, doesn’t always go according to script.
Earlier that day, we walked the Champ de Mars. Sunlight catching the iron lattice of the tower in all the right ways. We snapped a few photos, took it in. I crushed a beer at the base, as is tradition—every monument gets one. This time it was a European IPA—light, crisp, not the California hop bombs I was used to. Just enough to say cheers to history.
Jet lag was creeping in like fog. We staggered back to the hotel, grabbed a quick nap, then got dressed—pressed shirts, decent shoes, looking like we had somewhere to be. Because we did.
But Paris had other plans.
The metro betrayed us. Wrong train, wrong line, time slipping through our fingers like sand. We never made it. Never went up the tower. No toast over the Seine. Just missed chances and the humbling lesson that not every box gets checked.
We walked it off. The night was still ours, just less polished.
“Athy,” I asked, “what do you feel like eating?”
She looked at me, shrugged, and said: “Pizza Hut.”
And you know what? That was fine. Paris, even at its most disappointing, still beats just about anywhere else. Dinner wasn’t high above the city, but we were still there—wandering, laughing, tired, and together. And maybe that’s the real postcard.
I think Athy had this image in her head—European Pizza Hut, classy, maybe even candlelit. A sit-down joint where the crusts are flakier and the Coke comes in glass bottles. But no, this wasn’t that. This was counter-service, plastic trays, no-frills. Just… Pizza Hut. Abroad.
But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be special.
We grabbed the pizza, boxed and steaming, and I told her we were taking it somewhere better. We walked, just the two of us, through the dim-lit streets of Paris until we found a spot by the river. The Seine, flowing like it has for centuries, with couples strolling, boats drifting, and the kind of effortless nighttime magic that only Paris seems to do without trying.
We sat down. Opened the box. Took in the scene.
Eating pizza in Paris—that’s what made it cool. Not the brand, not the crust, but the moment. A cheap dinner turned into something memorable. Something honest. Something ours.
No dress code. No tower views. Just us, the city, and a greasy slice shared by the water.
Then, like all good stories, the night ended. We walked back in silence, full—not just from food—but from something better.
We called it a night. And it was perfect.
The next day was wide open. No plans, no tickets, just space to breathe. I made time to go see my Father in Law, Larry, who was traveling through France on his way to Romania. I valued him. I valued our time. I made sure to see him, even if we would see him back in the states.
In the evening, I took the opportunity to meet up with an old friend—one of the stewards from United Airlines. Solid guy. Reliable. The kind of person who remembers how things used to be and still meets you there.
He brought a few of his friends along. I noticed right away they were of a particular circle—tight-knit, sharp, and unapologetically themselves. That didn’t bother me in the slightest. We were welcomed in like regulars, not tourists. No pretenses. Just food, drinks, and conversation.
We ate. We caught up. Talked about life, travel, the absurdities of the job. Somewhere between the wine and the stories, I turned to him and apologized—for how I’d handled things with his friend. A woman I dated, someone I hadn’t treated with the grace she deserved. I told him it was on me, not her. If she ever said hi, I’d return the kindness. But we wouldn’t be grabbing coffee. Some chapters are meant to stay closed.
The guys and I kept talking. My sister, Athy, listened. Took it all in. I think she saw something in that—me owning up to the past, setting things right. We celebrated the trip, the city, the fact that for once, none of us were alone in it.
The next morning came too soon.
Athy boarded a flight back to Pennsylvania. I headed home to San Diego. Mission accomplished—we’d seen a beautiful city, together. I didn’t have to experience it in silence or through my camera lens alone. I got to share it, and that made all the difference.
What I didn’t know then was that it would be my last major trip to the Middle East. That when I returned home, I’d be done. The job, the rotations, the desert miles—all of it. I’d had enough. Not because I was broken, but because something else needed fixing.
My family.
My marriage was already fragile, the distance like a chisel widening the cracks. But it wasn’t just that. It was the kids. They needed me. Their mother—she was struggling. Falling apart in ways I didn’t fully understand until I got back.
And that’s when I knew: my time for running was over.
No more planes. No more contracts. No more chasing foreign streets for clarity.
The mission had changed. And this time, it was personal.