Why do we travel?

In the weeks leading up to our departure, I worry about whether our house and dog will be okay in our absence, I ponder the eternal conundrum of what to pack that is both stylish AND comfortable, and I ask myself this question: Why do we travel? Why do we subject ourselves to the bleary-eyed fugue state of jet lag, the discomfort of unfamiliar pillows and the rigors of living out of a suitcase when we could be safe and comfy at home?

Then we arrive in Paris, and the answer is clear: As our location shifts, so does our perspective. We find ourselves in a perpetual state of “beginner’s mind”, experiencing everything as if for the first time. Even though we’ve visited countless times before, everything feels new, and we feel more alive (albeit minus a few IQ points, thanks to jet lag).

We check into our hotel, stash our luggage, and step outside to wander the cobblestoned streets of Montmartre. The non-stop sensory input is like a jolt of electricity that jump-starts our sleep-deprived brains.

Scooters zip past, narrowly missing car fenders and heedless cyclists. Cafés and restaurants overflow onto the sidewalks. Dogs of all shapes and sizes (a surprising number of them off-leash) trot obediently beside their humans. Bewildered tourists stand on street corners staring down at their phones. A police siren bleats a dissonant Doppler-bending wail.

A brisk hike up the countless stairs to Sacré Coeur brings our legs and lungs back online.

To my relief, the lilting intonation of native French all around us unlocks the dusty mental closet where fully formed sentences and obscure vocabulary words have apparently been waiting to spring forth as needed. How odd that these semi-intelligible sounds function as language, but what a blessing to understand and be understood.

We manage to stay awake for an early dinner of mussels and frîtes (French fries) for Anna; oysters, frîtes, and a simple green salad of the ilk found only in Paris for Dave. To celebrate our first night here, we raise a glass of effervescent Billecart Salmon (rosé) champagne. On our way back to the hotel, we pass the Moulin Rouge windmill, a familiar (“not anymore!”) landmark that is looking rather unfamiliar since mysteriously losing its arms the day before. (Probably Inspector Clouseau is on the case.)

The following day will be our last in Paris until we return for a week at the end of our trip. We decide to spend part of it learning about the history of French architecture at an exhibition currently on view at the Cité de L’Architecture et du Patrimoine. Unexpectedly, much of the exhibition consists of floor-to-ceiling reproductions of Romanesque pillars, statues and doorways. Luckily, our tickets also grant us entry to a fascinating exhibit about the construction of the Paris metro system, a poignantly expressive mural showing the damage to Notre Dame after the April 2019 fire, and scenic views of the nearby Eiffel Tower.

We have booked a lunch reservation at Ardent, a newish restaurant that features grilled dishes made with fresh seasonal ingredients. Unprepossessing from the outside, perhaps, but deliciously surprising inside. We thoroughly enjoy our lunch of smokey marinated artichoke hearts garnished with caper sherbet, bacon-wrapped turbot and charred endive (for Anna); and “crying tiger” (spicy Thai marinated beef), carrots vinaigrette, roasted herb-infused veal, pearl potatoes and root vegetables (for Dave).

At the Arc de Triomphe, we cannot resist resting on a bench and watching the never-ending spectacle of traffic zooming around the giant whirlpool of the étoile. Also, our legs and feet are tired. And so we sit for awhile, mesmerized by the continuous flow of cars, motorcycles, busses, scooters and cyclists all jockeying for position as they merge from 12 grand avenues into the circular flow of traffic. We witness several narrowly missed collisions and then hear a loud thump and the sound of scraping metal. Traffic slows, and Dave jumps up to see what happened, but an instant later the frenetic pace has already resumed. He returns to our bench and fondly recounts his 1977 solo drive through Paris in his dad’s new Mercedes, navigating with a paper map spread across his lap and somehow making it around the étoile without a scratch. He laments that we haven’t rented a car or a scooter to experience the wild ride again. But there is a workaround. A few blocks away we hail an obliging Uber driver who barges into the mêlée of the étoile as easily as pulling into a parking lot. He threads his way through the throng of vehicles with alternate bursts of speed and slamming of brakes and eventually delivers us safely to the other side.

In the evening, we scour the immediate neighborhood around our hotel for the sort of brasserie we like: not too modern, not too crowded, not too brightly lit. Eventually we come upon Le Sancerre, where we enjoy a casual dinner of croque monsieur (ham and swiss melted on hearty bread) for Dave, and seared salmon (or mi-cuit, as they say here) with a side of frîtes for Anna. Dave will return to the same café the next morning for breakfast and then we’ll head to Chablis, white wine Mecca for those of us who revere crisp, mineral-driven Chardonnay.