I suppose the Eiffel Tower is the piece de resistance, so to speak, of Paris. On our 25 day backpacking trip through Europe, my husband, Brian, and I had 6 nights in the famed city of Lights. We (at least I) found the idea of spending our last night dining high in the tower, the glittering panorama of Paris spread below us, unspeakably romantic. Up there the smells of the city would fade, we would forget about our aching feet, and would gaze lovingly into each other's eyes over candlelight and a glass of excellent French wine. However, we were to spend the evening at Hard Rock Café, watching some pitiful man try to sell flowers no one wanted.

The morning started pleasantly enough. A delectable breakfast at yet another enticing patisserie; some time spent wandering by myself through the charming Rue Cler neighborhood, poking about in bookstores, gourmet shops and odds and ends markets. Brian and I met up midmorning and enjoyed a street performance of a quartet. It was several moments before I was surprised to discover the lyrics were English!

It was to be a good day because today was the day of Tati - the Parisian fashion bargain basement. And in fact, my shopping expedition was quite successful. It wasn't until after lunch that things began to go downhill. We hadn't purchased any souvenirs yet for anyone back home, after over 2 weeks in Europe, and feeling guilty about this fact, we decided to go ahead and take care of that task. The day was getting warmer; the late June sunshine was beating down increasingly more intently as we hatched a plan to visit the Bastille area of Paris. We hadn't been there yet, so we thought we'd take a look at the monument, and then hunt for that perfect "souvenier du Paris" as everything seemed to be labeled in this city.

We descended into the dank urine-soaked stench of the Metro. Litter scraps danced about, sent into frenzied motion by the shuffling feet of hundreds of tourists, beggars, and Parisians. I noticed with dismay that the Metro car was unpleasantly full. We shouldered our way into the packed car though, where I immediately buried my face in Brian's chest. Standing just under 5' 2" I am most unfortunately situated at armpit level to the general public. And on this very warm day, the publics' nondeodorized en masse armpit was not a place I cared to let my nose linger. The sweaty crowd jostled, bumped, and shoved as each stop admitted more odiferous passengers to our confines, while releasing only a few. Sticky flesh was pressed against me as I sought to meld into my husband's protective form.

The train at last reached our stop and we all piled out like a herd of slaughterhouse cattle, not smelling much better. I wondered aloud why the crowd seemed so much worse than on any of our previous rides. As we ascended the tightly packed escalator to street level, I realized why. We had inadvertently stumbled into Gay Pride Day Parade in Paris. Now, lest anyone accuse this writer of prejudice or discrimination, I must point out that it could have been Office Worker, Housewife, or Small Yippee Dog Owner Pride Day Parade, for all I cared; the end result was the same. Masses, throngs, of people milled about everywhere, swarming over the sidewalk onto the street as far as the eye could see. Balloons and signs dotted the blue sky directly overhead. Young men clambered about the imposing Bastille monument, flinging bright yellow Parade shirts into the crowd. Brian jumped up and neatly caught one; now, there's a souvenir!