V-Day, ... And I Don't Mean Valentine's

Ahhh... Paris. What more idyllic Valentine's Day setting can you imagine?

Thousands flock the La Ville Lumiere for this card and candy holiday. But why? It's Februray. Every monument and museum is bursting with bundled lovers. Do you want to stand atop the Effiel Tower with -20 degree windchill gusts? Stroll the famous Jardins de Tuileries, seeing more keychain peddlers then flowers. The museums are teeming with Asians on holiday, taking photos of every one of the Lourve's 35,000 artifacts for their Hello Kitty scrapbook.

Sorry if I just shattered everyone's romantic vision of their future someday. But I am in Paris now, and have a girl on St. Valentine's Day. Not even I can screw this up. Or can I?

Victoria arrived in Paris, February 12th, a Friday. She is taking this semester off from school, to travel and study in her parents homeland of the Netherlands. She was coming to stay with me in Paris for a couple weeks to see the sights, and most importantly me.

After lugging are giant black and white polka-dotted luggage, back from CDG, (she said she packed light) I let her catch some sleep. The evening we just attempted to change some U.S. dollars, and catch a peak of Notre Dame under lights.

Sacre Coeur was the first stop on Saturday. The weather was mild, so the crowd was crazy. We ducked inside the Basilica and sat watched the security guard throw out couples for making out in the pews. What a horrible job. The poor guy looked like he needed a hug.

The street performers were out in full force. The "Roman statue" guy, was accompanied by, the "Indian statue" guy. Two other performers were doing some insanely difficult act using massive crystal balls (grow-up kids). Their stuff was tight and choreographed to dramatic music and were stealing the show from the "look how still I can stand" duo. We settled down on the steps and looked out over Paris, while listening to a French Brandon Flowers slaughter Bob Marley's "Revolution Song."

After "pied a promenez" through Montmartre, we stopped in front of the Moulin Rouge for the neccesary photo op, and then popped into the neighbor O'Sullivan's for a nip and pint. The Six Nations tournament was also invading Paris on the this holiday weekend, and Montmartre had been renamed 'Ecosse' or 'Scotland.' Luckily France had won the match earlier that day, and we hadn't entered the pub at it's peak hours.

The day ended with a stroll under la Tour d'Eiffel and I got a little present. Paris won the day, and I got to reap the rewards.