I never really wanted to go to Paris. To me, it was a place of clichés—overrun by tourists, overrated, overpriced.
As a well-traveled tourist, I try to avoid obvious destinations, and Paris felt like the biggest tourist trap of them all.
But looking back, I think Paris wanted to see me.
My mom is still a young lady, but she had a big birthday coming up—March 8th, right in the middle of spring break. A former French teacher who spent much of her life in a Soviet cage, she could only dream of ever going to France. If I was going to take her, it had to be now.
At the same time, my 16-year-old daughter casually announced she was canceling our summer trip—she had plans of her own (since when?). That left me with a Delta flight credit I needed to use before fall.
And then came the final nudge: 80,000 Delta SkyMiles that were practically useless—unless I used them for a specific week in March. Dallas to Paris. Round trip. $90.
Paris was calling. Loudly.
So the three of us went.
We spent our first three days in Normandy. After the overnight flight, the Paris metro, and two trains to Rouen, my mom declared she wanted to go back to Texas. The French, she said, were not friendly enough. No one smiled at her.
My heart sank.
I tried to explain that people on public transportation in Dallas don’t exactly beam with warmth either—but even I didn’t sound convinced.
So I turned to my not-so-secret weapon.
After a glass of heavenly Bordeaux and a bite of Camembert de Normandie, everything changed. Suddenly, who needed the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower when there were real French people speaking real French around her?
The rest of the trip was saved.
Normandy was everything you imagine and more—half-timbered houses, Gothic cathedrals, rolling countryside, exceptional food. There was even a drunken brawl in our stairwell one night, protests against the retirement age, and a canceled train due to a strike.
It was chaotic, imperfect—and unmistakably French.
And then we went to Paris.
After the old, crowded, almost suffocating metro, stepping out into Montmartre at Abbesses felt like coming up for air. Early spring, soft light, an open intersection where you could actually feel something like liberté in very Parisian way.
I didn’t have high expectations, which made it easy for Paris to exceed them.
It’s simply a fun place to be. A city that invites you to live fully, to notice everything, to indulge a little. Light, free-spirited, romantic, and effortlessly elegant. Feminine, even.
The perfect place to be with your girls.
The three of us share a bloodline, but we couldn’t be more different. Like many daughters, we all have moments when we think our mothers are embarrassing.
But the best thing we have in common is this:
On our first trip to Paris, we did it together.
We loved the city. And it felt like it loved us back.
On our last night, walking through Montmartre, I looked up and felt raindrops on my face.
Paris was crying to see me leaving.
“Don’t cry, mon amour,” I thought. We’ll come back as often as we can.
And even if we don’t— we’ll love you forever.
