I had expected both lines and crowds at the Eiffel Tower—but only the lines showed up. The weather had turned chilly, and a strong wind now swept across the Champ de Mars. The entrance leads directly beneath the tower’s four immense legs, and aside from a scattering of visitors, the space was nearly deserted. The food and souvenir stands sat mostly empty. The only exception? Two long, heavily populated lines stretching from opposite ends of the plaza.
The lines moved slowly, and I just needed to find the right one. My first guess led me into the queue for the restaurant. After a quick “Pardon,” I slipped out and joined the line on the other side. I pulled my ticket from my jacket and showed it to the first official-looking person I could find.
“You're an hour early,” they said.
“Sacre bleu.”
With no time to leave and return, I was stuck with little to do but wander aimlessly. I browsed the snack bar, glanced at the souvenir stands, and checked out the restrooms. That killed a grand total of ten minutes.
At the snack bar, I managed to drop my wallet on the concrete. In most parts of Paris, that would have been a disaster. But here—at the ghost town that was the base of the Eiffel Tower—no one even noticed. I could have yelled, “Free wallet!” and I doubt anyone would’ve cared.
I sipped my coffee and nibbled at a pastry as slowly as I could manage. When enough time had passed, I made my way back to the proper line and waited for the elevator.
Now, for those with stronger hearts and younger knees, there's always the option to climb the stairs to the top. Fifty years ago, I might have attempted it myself. But today, the elevator was definitely the way to go—and I wasn’t alone in that decision.
The first elevator holds more people than you’d expect and travels diagonally up the side of the tower to the first landing, about halfway up. From there, a series of steps leads you to a second elevator that carries you most of the rest of the way.
It was at this second platform that I exchanged my ticket for a glass of champagne—an overpriced indulgence that cost me several hundred euros. But it came with a view.
The observation deck was stunning. A couple from the States offered to take my photo with my champagne, and we returned the favor. Everything went smoothly, and with photo in hand and bubbles in my glass, I made my way to the final elevator—to the spire at the very top.
 One more elevator, one more view—and despite the gentle swaying of a tower exposed to wind and sky, the panorama was absolutely phenomenal.
From here, you could see all of Paris: both the historic and the modern. In the distance stood clusters of towering skyscrapers—a part of the city I hadn’t yet explored. Closer in, the classic Paris unfolded before me: the winding Seine, tiled rooftops, manicured parks, and every landmark I’d visited so far. All of it laid out like a perfectly crafted miniature, equal parts toy set and masterpiece.
I had planned to stay until nightfall, hoping to see the city light up beneath me. But as the wind picked up and the cold settled deeper into my bones, my resolve began to thaw. I stayed as long as I could, soaking in the view, until I began to feel like Chevy Chase at the Grand Canyon—just enough of a nod before hurrying everyone back to the car.
Still, swaying or not, it was a glorious visit. One I’ll never forget. And once my feet were firmly back on terra firma, I appreciated it even more.

One leaves Notre Dame with mixed feelings of awe, reverence, the ability of man to offer up a lasting monument to his faith, and most significantly, a real craving for ice cream. Luckily for me, there happens to be a world-famous ice cream shop within walking distance. It’s called Berthillon and, according to my wife, it is the best in the entire world. Well, excuse me, but I will be the judge of that.
But first, a quick stop before I traverse over the Seine and into the Left Bank. I need to stop by Shakespeare and Company and see if they have either of my books. Spoiler alert: They do not. But, for a writer at least, no trip to Paris would be complete without at least paying homage.

Shakespeare and Company, the famous English-language bookstore in Paris, is located on the Left Bank across from Notre Dame and has been open since 1951. However, it's important to differentiate this from the original Shakespeare and Company, founded by Sylvia Beach, which closed in 1941 during the German occupation of Paris.

The internet wrote that last part as I am extremely busy thinking about ice cream. When I arrived, the store had just opened and there was a line just to walk through. Ice cream would have to wait a little longer.
Once inside, I was treated to shelves and shelves of books in a relatively small space. The shelves serve as stanchions, the public weaving around slowly until they reach the cash register where hopefully they have an armful of either French or English books. In my case, I had neither, deciding to break off from the masses to climb the stairs into a life-sized replica of the loft where Ernest Hemingway, that’s right, Big Poppa, slept when he had nowhere else to stay. Small window, simple cot, wooden table and chair, several empty bottles. Ah, reminds me of my college days.
And I’m ready for some ice cream.

Leaving the bookstore, I headed for the bridge across the Seine. To my surprise, I found literally thousands of locks attached to the metal railings of the bridge. It turns out, each of these locks signifies a relationship and a love locked for eternity. There happen to be so many locks that the city was forced to remove them before the structure of the bridge was compromised and crumbled into the river. Ah, isn’t it just like love to accomplish what the Nazis couldn’t?
Now I’m really ready for some ice cream.

Berthillon is only several blocks away. My short journey toward diabetes was interrupted by the many stands of used books and art along the river. Here you can have your picture drawn or stop at one of the used book stands and see if you can find one of my novels there. Spoiler alert: You can’t.
Dejected in a way that only an unsuccessful author can be, I hurry on to drown my feelings in cold, creamy goodness. There is a lot of hype regarding this place and, you know what, everyone, including my wife, is right. This stuff is phenomenal. It is way beyond the ice cream of 31 flavors. This is ambrosia fit for the gods. I got a one-scoop cone of salted caramel, 300 Euros (actually only 4 to 7 depending on flavor), and darted off back toward the river to enjoy the sun, before continuing my first day in Paris.

​Okay, I’m here. Now what?
Well, I decided to keep my first day in Paris relatively light. After a night of tossing and turning—on a very comfortable bed, mind you—I came up with a manageable list of things to do:

• Notre Dame
• The Left Bank
• The Latin Quarter
• Sainte-Chapelle
• Shakespeare and Company
• Ice cream at Berthillon

And all before 4 p.m., because I had a very pressing appointment.
Breakfast at Maison Chomel is truly a traveler’s delight. To get there, I descended in what may be the tiniest elevator known to man. I’m fairly certain it’s the same one James Bond fought diamond smuggler Peter Franks in. Sure, they moved it from Holland to France, but in the movies, they do that sort of thing all the time. I swear it made the exact same noise.
Anyway, breakfast was laid out beautifully—cereals, breads, cheeses, and plenty of coffee with milk. I ate quickly, handed my room key to Matt at the front desk, and made my way to the Metro.
I had already purchased a week-long Metro pass, and after spending what felt like hours the previous day assembling it like a Revell model kit, I was ready. I headed toward Babylone Station. Miraculously, the pass worked. After descending into the bowels of Paris, I waited only briefly for the next train.
It was still early—prime Parisian commute time. The platform was crowded but clean, and, thankfully, devoid of any lingering scent of urine. I wouldn’t be on the train long, but even a few minutes is enough to fall prey to the city’s notorious pickpockets. I kept a vigilant eye out. I would be on high alert the entire trip for these smooth-fingered villains.
I believe it was Mother Superior who told Maria in The Sound of Music, “When God opens a Metro train door, get in that motherf***er fast before it’s too late.” With that in mind, I shoved aside what looked like several very nice elderly people and climbed aboard, landing a seat. Thankfully, during the two-stop ride, not a single person dared to reach inside my shirt and snatch my neck wallet. The Linde fortune remained secure.
Notre Dame.
The great cathedral caught fire on April 15, 2019, around 6:50 p.m. The blaze began in the roof structure and quickly spread, engulfing the spire and much of the roof. While the exact cause is still under investigation, restoration efforts have since returned Notre Dame to her former glory—and she is once again open to the public.
Word to the wise: If you want to go inside (and who wouldn’t?), get your tickets early. It’s worth every euro and offers a visual feast you won’t forget.
Now, while the architecture of St. Paul’s in London is certainly impressive (if a bit stifling), Notre Dame is a true Gothic masterpiece. Spires instead of domes. Hand-carved stone instead of plaster. There’s honestly nothing like it in the world. Gazing up at it feels like time travel—to 1260, when power and religion were immortalized in stone.
And as stunning as the exterior is, the interior is nearly twice as breathtaking. Stained glass, statues, altars—each element painstakingly preserved. The lives of saints and popes are literally carved into the structure, guiding your steps as you walk through. It’s humbling. I found myself in one of the seats used during services, where I sat quietly, contemplatively, just trying to take it all in.
I could have spent the entire day in just this one place. Despite the massive crowds, I was drawn inward, reflecting on the power of religion and these monuments on lives both past and present.

March 31, 2025. 60 degrees. Sunny. (4 to 5:30 pm)
 
“You’re the last to arrive, J.P.”

Shocked that my celebrity had been recognized, I retrieved by suitcase from the back of the taxi and rolled up the grinning bald man who stood outside the entrance of my hotel. Maison Chomel is 6 floors (only 5 accessible by the elevator) and 23 extremely comfortable and charming rooms. Matt the manager, as I later learned was his name, knew that I was the last to arrive to the fully booked hotel. How many hotels do you know, where you haven’t even arrived and they already know you  by name. I knew I was going to like this place. If ever I there was a home for me in Paris, this was the place. After some fun chatter with Matt, I rolled my suitcase to the old school elevator (fits two barely) and went up to my room on the fourth floor to unpack.

And what I found was as delightful as I expected. London had gotten me used to small rooms, but Paris seemed to know how to use every inch of space for the comfort of the visitor. The bed, taking up most of the room, was soft and comfortable, the bathroom was a couple of steps away but included a nice shower. There was a small desk for journaling. Shelves of books, both English and French, and drumroll please, a balcony! I immediately threw open the double doors and gladly welcomed the sounds of Paris into my room. I may never leave.
​
The hotel itself is in the Babylone District on Rue Chomel and located in the very heart of Paris. It is surrounded by cafes and restaurants, near the famous Bon Marche and, of course the nearby Metro. It is a seventeen-minute walk to the Eiffel Tower and less to Notre Dame and the Jewish Quarter. Oh, yeah. I think I am going to like it here.
It was now after 4pm and I need to get unpacked and get outside to wander around while it was still light. There was so much to see, and I only had a week. Besides, I thought I spotted an outdoor table and seat with my name on it. I took one more look out my balcony and set about unpacking. I was in Paris, and I had things to do.