Nobody does it like Paris

“Nobody does it like Paris.” This is what my sister said to me as we gazed at the Eiffel Tower for the first time. There it was, in all its glory, looking just like the pictures but being so much more real. The first night we were in Paris, we didn’t even go up to the top, we just sat on the huge stretch of grass below it, drinking wine and watching the sun set. Every hour after darkness settled in, twinkling lights made the entire structure sparkle for five whole minutes. This aspect was a little gaudy and made it more of a spectacle than a world-renowned piece of art, but I suppose that’s part of Parisian culture.
When we finally did make it to the top, my sister and I waded through a mass of people to see Paris from all sides.
The Seine snaked its way through the city, shimmering with the reflection of the fading sun. This aerial view is an illusion. It hides the rush, the chaos, the hustle and bustle of the city. But I know. I’ve been down there, in the whirl of Parisian life. Now it is spread out before me, like a child’s finger painting, awaiting approval. Once the sun sets, the wind whips around us and my sister pulls her hood up over her head to shield herself from the harsh chill.

I take a picture of her, of Paris now living up to its reputation of being the city of lights. But I shift my gaze upward, and my eyes catch the pinpricks of light scattered aimlessly in the black velvet sky. I agree with Melanie. Nobody does it like Paris.