Grand Prix de Paris

Huffing and puffing, we reached the first landing after about 10 minutes. The French have been considerate enough to post small signs at the top of every flight of stairs. Curiously enough, the signs are posted first in English and then in various other languages. I think this might be a subtle dig at Americans, who - one would assume - are the least fit of all the folks who choose to climb the tower, and need frequent breaks. How right they are!

On the first floor, as we stood waiting for the lift, a striking young brunette began to sing opera, seemingly impromptu. Her voice was a full-bodied soprano, and though I’ve never been to an opera or been particularly fond of the genre, I was an instant convert. Maybe it was the lights of Paris stretching out below us, maybe it was the lateness of the hour, or the magic of being at such a famous spot; whatever the cause, there was magic in the air at that moment.

So close to closing, there were precious few people left even on the first floor of the Tower. A small crowd of tourists gathered around the girl, mesmerized. The melody was sad, but she sang it with a graceful smile. Her cell phone rang halfway through and without missing a beat, she silenced it. When her performance came to an end, the half-dozen onlookers spontaneously erupted into applause. “Bravissima!” I shouted. She and her three companions looked startled at all the attention. Surely, they’d noticed the crowd of admirers! But they hadn’t. They’d been in their own little world.

I made conversation in halting (but ever-more-confident) French with the attendant in the second lift. The best thing about her job was the view, she said; the worst thing, the people. I enquired whether the top level of the Tower was open, and she explained that it was closed to me since I had walked to the first landing. Didn’t make sense to me, but I’m not one to argue.

On our way down from the second level, Lift Girl abruptly broke into English. “Excuse me, is it true that you have bought full-fare tickets to the top?” Yes, I had—but wasn’t the top closed? “Oh, mon dieu, I am terribly sorry. You have bought full-fare tickets. The top is open to you! I did not know since you have walked to the first landing. Please let me make arrangements.”

Lift Girl made some radio calls, and we found ourselves whisked to the small, enclosed observation deck at the top of the tower accompanied by all the staff on duty. There were two other tourists up there, but they went down just as we arrived. We stood and admired the view as the staff closed up. I can now honestly say that I’ve closed out the Eiffel Tower!

By the time we were on the ground again it was 12:30am. We hurried to the metro station and got the last train toward home, but missed our transfer at place Charles de Gaulle. Stranded in the middle of Paris miles from our home, we walked dejectedly to the surface before realizing that we were smack on Champs Elysees! Catching a cab would be no problem. Another first—until that night, I’d never hired a cab in Europe.

Apparently, to catch a cab there, you just wave. They’ll stop immediately - even in traffic, in the middle of a four-lane street - and swerve over onto the sidewalk (literally!) to pick you up. The ride back was even more “exciting” than the pickup. Our cabbie zoomed through roundabouts, down one-way streets and weaved through rights and lefts. Just as I was beginning to wonder whether he was an F1 fan, we passed into a tunnel. Looking at the Seine, I noticed an eternal flame on our right. This was the Princess Diana death tunnel, and here we were shooting through it at 80kph! I decided not to tell Mom about my revelation until we got back to the apartment.

We both slept in until 9am the following morning—the latest we’ve slept since getting to France. After 10 miles of walking, 20 flights of stairs and a breakneck cab ride, I daresay we deserved to pamper ourselves!