When hubs told me we were starting February off in Paris, I had one thought: I hope we get to see the city in the snow. Never mind that according to almost everything I read, it rarely snows in Paris. I had it in my head that that would make the weekend that much more romantical (new word).
On our first day, we high-tailed it to the Eifel Tower and made friends with that little bird to the left who kept posing for all my photos. No snow, but the perfect start no less.
That night, when we left dinner, it was snowing the tiniest bit… but when we woke up, none had stuck. It was enough for me to be able to say it snowed that little bit, but THEN! We walked out of the hotel Sunday morning and this was there to greet us:
And let it be known: I was right. It did make it that much more romantical.
We strolled the streets, and it seriously felt like we had Paris all to ourselves–you know, until we stopped to warm up with a carafe de vin rouge and some soupe à l’oignon. Turns out, the French love their Sunday brunch as much as New Yorkers. Aggressive statement, I know.
We made our way around the city, and decided to stop in Notre Dame to warm up a bit (/we couldn’t climb up and hang with Quasimoto, but whatevs. This was just as good).
Hubs and I are pretty much the first people to complain about winter moving in, but I’m here to tell you: if it’s so cold that you have to wear tights under your leggings under your jeans and three sweaters and a giant scarf that looks like it’s eating your face and ear muffs and a hood to function properly, then where else would you rather be than Paris?