They Call Me a Francophile, At Least They Know I Know Where France Is

Our Paris trip earlier this summer is quickly fading into memory, and I didn't even write about it all that much.

I did not tell you about the joys of walking to the same patisserie each morning for a pan au chocolat and hot, strong coffee, and being recognized by the counter girls.

I did not tell you about making a new friend and walking the rainy cobbles of Montmartre.

I did not tell you about the sun setting oh-so-late, so you stop at a sidewalk cafe bustling with people long after dark for wine and chocolate mousse and revel in all being up late.

I did not tell you about champagne with Rosy in a square with fountains in the middle.

I did not tell you about the light on Notre Dame.

I did not tell you about the wonder in Patrick and Beatrix's eyes when they first saw Saint Chapelle, and the Orangerie.

I did not tell you about the mix of the old and the new with new art installations placed into Versailles. Or the Pont des Arts.

I did not tell you about a Seine boat ride in the pouring rain.

I did not tell you that the Bridge of Locks had been taken down, so locks spring up all over the city.

I did not tell you about the dog in the basket the night of our anniversary dinner.

I did not tell you about the dogs all walking perfectly with their people, not needing leashes.

I did not tell you about walking narrow streets, peering into courtyards.

I did not tell you about the shop filled with butterflies, and shells, and a stuffed yak.

I did not tell you about the exhibit at the Pompidou Center that we loved so much we went back to, twice in two days.

I did not tell you about Beatrix blowing bubbles off the top of the Eiffel Tower, or sailing a sailboat in the Jardins de Luxembourg.

I did not tell you about so much. But it is all in my memory.