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physically painful episode of climbing down stairs I had ever
experienced, hips and knees sore from step after step and
undoubtedly, from all of the walking of our long day.

The tower once again sparkles, the white lights
contrasting the static gold glow that continuously lights the
tower. I take only a few more pictures. I’ve seen the tower
light up in ecstasy four times now, and the novelty is starting
to wear off. Still, I’m a little sad knowing that this will be the
last time I will see the lights on this trip. We won’t be able to
see the tower from wherever we end up eating our long
overdue evening meal.

As we walk, we are approached by a homeless man. “Fuck
Obama!” he cries playfully, trying to solicit our agreement and
our monetary donations. I try to avoid him, but he touches my
arm, and in that instant, I’ve had enough. I decide that it’s in
my best interest to run from the back of the pack to the front,
which is led by Josh, whose beard and black knit cap make
him look like a worthy opponent for the French hobo, should
the bum choose to pursue me.

The metro station is a destination most welcome, and
we board the train all together, all in one piece.

⁂

Sometime during the next hour, ten p.m. comes and goes,
but we don’t know when since we no longer have the Eiffel
Tower’s lights to tell us the time. Yet there’s nothing dark
about where we are now. Displays of lights left over from the
recent 12-day celebration of Christmas span across the
streets, suspended above the hustle and bustle of Parisian life.
The lights hanging above the street of Le Café Zéphyr are
white, with red lights forming large, five-point stars that
remind me of Macy’s, just enough of a touch of home.

“Hup!—Hup!” pipes an energetic, curly-haired maître d’,
our waitress, as she hoists enough chairs to seat our party
over to the far end of the enclosed sidewalk seating. It’s still

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