We’d seen it from the Arc de Triomphe, the wide berth of Champs-Élysées, the food court on the top floor of the Galeries Lafayette. But tradition dictated that we see it in-person, too. You don’t need to read honeymoon blogs to understand why any trip to the City of Lights wouldn’t be complete without a visit to the world’s most iconic symbol of love—but I’d strongly recommend it. “Just a glance,” writes one traveler, “can make you fall head over heels for it.” Another declares: “it is the best spot to confess your heartfelt feelings to your loved ones.”
Here’s a confession: Courtney and I had spent most of the day in silence. It was our last day in Paris, and our top priority was getting our money’s worth on our €48 Museum Pass. We got up early to meander through the cavernous exhibition rooms of Musée d'Orsay before going across town to the Arab World Institute. The exterior walls of the Arab World Institute are outfitted with metallic screens, controlled by photo-sensitive apertures, that contract and expand throughout the day to let in different amounts of light. It made for a wildly prismatic effect, the floor dancing with kaleidoscopic shapes—alternating light and shadow—as we walked.
But we hardly mentioned it. By the time we sat down for lunch, we were exhausted, briefly debating a quota on all future museums before tiring of even that conversation. The waiter, taking our silence as an opportunity, appeared smug as a high school jock in a primetime sitcom. He handed Courtney alone an open face tartine, feigning never to have heard my order. I reprised my role as hapless high school antihero: feeling the need to uphold my honor in front of a love interest while simultaneously avoiding getting shoved in a locker. We left without leaving a tip.
It was unusually chilly at dusk, and I was underdressed. We missed the sunset, which, along with sunrise (according to the blogs), comprised the two prime visiting hours for the Eiffel Tower. But we were in full view of its luminous splendor nonetheless, twenty-thousand lights that twinkled incandescently as a ballroom chandelier. We were shuttled into a covered elevator, relishing the long climb up. But at the top there were none of the grand pronouncements I’d come to expect; the wind whipped so hard it was difficult to even put words to air.
Instead of waiting for the elevator back down, we took the stairs. When you see something up close, you expose its imperfections, peel back the veneer of mystery and see it for what it truly is. I was amazed to locate the struts and supports, the intricate architecture of the structure that held us—fraught and fragile—in its underbelly. There were even parts that had already been tarnished, gold-painted cables and railings reverted to the dull color of steel. Being close to any situation will always be riskier, less idealized, than the love that announces itself from afar, in the bold, block letters of postcards or movie posters. It’s never the way you envision it at the start. But maybe that’s what makes it so special.
Back in Trocadero Gardens, it was getting colder. There were couples dotting the field on picnic blankets, a bottle of wine nestled between their laps. A lone woman was lined up in front of a crepe vendor. A man was selling flowers and cigarettes next to a sign cautioning against abusive soliciting. We double-backed across the lawn to try and get a better photo, but a double-decker tour bus soon arrived to blot out our view. I was still shivering a bit, my finger on the camera’s shutter. Courtney took off her sweatshirt and handed it to me, snug as a letter jacket. She didn’t have to say a word.