P.S. Take photos of everything. These will be the stories you treasure forever!
Day 8: Le Havre, France (Paris/Normandy Excursion)
The ship is dockedin Le Havre, France, and everyone on board is buzzing, just itching to raid France like only a cruise ship can—which is to say, with overwhelming enthusiasm, questionable language skills, and enough camera equipment to document the liberation of Paris for the third time this century.
The morning air carries the scent of fresh croissants from nearby cafés, mingling with sea salt and whatever expensive cologne is wafting from the French businessman arguing loudly into his phone like he’s personally negotiating the Treaty of Versailles.
Le Havre’s historic port hums all around us, filled with ancient stone buildings huddling against the waterfront while seagulls provide their own raucous backbeat to our departure from floating civilization. They’re probably placing bets on which tourists will embarrass themselves most spectacularly in the City of Light—my money is on us.
“Well, would you look at this continental conspiracy,” I say as Bess appears at the gangway with Ransom, Nettie, and me, looking absolutely radiant in a way that suggests she’s been dining on morethan just the ship’s breakfast buffet and possibly French romance novels. “Are you actually spending the day with us?”
“I’m shocked,” Nettie says, taking in her bestie. “I thought you declared war on activities that require walking in sensible shoes with people who weren’t Rex.”
Bess quickly waves us off with a laugh. “I couldn’t miss Paris,” she says, adjusting her red wool coat confidently, like she’s just discovered the secret to eternal happiness and it’s a silver-haired pilot. “Rex is tied up with some business meetings all day in Le Havre, so I thought I’d spend the day with you three—if you don’t mind having your third musketeer back for a proper adventure.”
“Mind?” Nettie shouts with enthusiasm because clearly, this troublemaker has been reunited with her people. “We’ve been floundering around without our ringleader! Welcome back to the land of the living, Bessie. I was starting to think you’d joined a cult.”
“I’m the ringleader?” Bess laughs, and I laugh right along with her.
“More like our fearless leader,” I say, giving her a quick hug.
“Here we come, Paris!” Nettie shouts with a howl. “The city of love, croissants, and questionable life choices will never know what hit ’em!”
“Finally, a destination worthy of my international incident potential,” I tease.
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Ransom observes with that particular brand of amusement he reserves for Nettie’s special brand of chaos.
The hours long train to Paris winds through the French countryside that looks like someone took every romantic cliché about France and made them all come true simultaneously. Rolling green hills dotted with stone farmhouses, well-manicured vineyards, and villages so quaint they look as if they came out of a storybook.
“So,” I say as we settle into our seats. “Are we going to discuss the elephant in the train, or are we pretending Rex isn’t planning to spirit you away to Montana like some kind of silver-haired cattle rustler with frequent flyer miles?”
Bess laughs it off because clearly, she’s living her best romantic fantasy. “It’s not that serious. We’re just having fun.”
“Right,” Nettie snorts. “And that explains whyyou’ve been abandoning us for him faster than teenagers ditch their parents at the mall. But sure, not serious at all.”
She has a point.
We finally get off the train and stretch our legs, breathing in the lush Parisian air as we take a look around. And then we see it.
Time seems to stand still as we stare at the grandiose beauty in silence.
The Eiffel Tower rises above us, and it actually lives up to all of the hype. All that iron lacework reaching into the gray February sky manages to be both elegant and imposing at the same time. The crowds move around its base in waves with everyone speaking different languages but all saying the same thing with their cameras—that they’re here, they made it, they’re standing in front of something that matters. Even in winter, even with clouds threatening rain, the whole scene has that Parisian romance thing down perfectly. And I love every last bit of it.
“I know it’s cliché,” I say as we approach the base, “but good grief, it’s actually magnificent. It’s like someone took the concept of impressive architecture and decided to show off.”
“Clichés become clichés because they work,” Ransom replies, already calculating angles for what I suspect will be approximately fourteen thousand photographs that will somehow all look identical but still require individual commentary. “And because they survive French engineering standards.”
We embrace our inner tourists with the enthusiasm of people who’ve decided shame is overrated. Bess poses like a 1950s movie star, her red coat dramatic against the tower’s iron framework. Nettie makes faces that would get her banned from most tourist attractions, while Ransom and I attempt romantic shots that mostly capture our inability to take ourselves seriously and possibly our complete lack of professional photography skills.
The elevator ride to the top provides views of Paris spread below us like a living map of romance and revolution, the river Seine winds through the city like a silver ribbon connecting centuries of history, art, and excellent pastry.
“Now this,” Nettie declares, surveying the panorama withsatisfaction because we just conquered a French version of Everest, “is what I call a room with a view. Eat your heart out, Montana.”
She’s not wrong.
Twenty minutes later, we’re settled at a sidewalk café near the tower, surrounded by the intoxicating aroma of chocolate croissants and café au lait strong enough to wake the dead. Which, given my recent supernatural social calendar, might not be entirely metaphorical.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” Nettie announces, demolishing her croissant without a shred of guilt. “Let’s discuss our murder case like civilized Parisians.”
