We were speeding along the A1, only the signboards an indication that we were not in familiar territory. Pt Dauphine, Pt Maillot. An arrow pointed, simply, managing to turn my blood to chocolate for a moment - Paris.
My first time in the City of Light was one of those whimsical, whirlwind visits: a weekend detour with my beloved (as it should be on first, romantic expeditions) in 2010.
It involved little sleep and a horrible bout of flu (cheaper, winter travels on a weak rand).
What I thought was dizzy excitement at seeing the sparkling Eiffel Tower from the taxi en route to our (budget) hotel was actually a sky-high fever.
So high, that I was left wondering whether the postage stamp that is the Mona Lisa was really as moving as I'd thought, or if I'd simply suffered a febrile convulsion right there in the Louvre.
One's expectations, like an Instagram filter, often put a sheen over what really is.
I vividly recall the nauseating heaps of dog poo collected along the River Seine; and the many filthy underground train stations, where we huddled from the icy wind, trying not to touch anything covered in the dust that appeared to have been collecting there since 1900, when they were first built.
And I recall getting lost amongst limestone statues at midnight, feeling the cold permeate my organs.
That was after we'd left the late sitting of an unsatisfying three-course dinner in the actual Eiffel Tower. It involved foie gras on toast and a pitiful quail, which I still regret speed-eating as our waiter hurried us through the meal on the 56th floor. We had only saved up for it for an actual year.Descending the tower, we realised we were not sure which way to walk back to our hotel.
A group of students pointed us towards the Métro - but it was closed.
So we walked the rest of the way in a blanket of ice that seemed to wrap itself around our heads, go up our noses, and squeeeeeeeeeze.
During the day, when it was slightly less chest-constrictingly cold, we walked the 5km up Montmartre hill to the Sacré Coeur Basilica, because there was no wifi, thus no Google to tell us there was a funicular to the top for €1, just over there.But then, we would not have stopped for coffee and crêpes half way up and met some friendly faces, who'd told us about the funicular.
Back then, a macron - that delightful almond and sugar puff of air and egg-whites - was affordable, bursts of sucrose to fuel your walks to the revue shows at the Moulin Rouge, the labyrinths, all the musées, to giggle at the naughty stores.
I didn't like the pale ham, sickly looking slabs of meat, and barely cooked eggs we were served for breakfast. Baguettes and croissants with cheese were better.But our hotel was quaint, the elevator just big enough for one person and a piece of carry-on luggage. Adorable.
Well, perhaps not for my 1.8m tall husband, who did not fit in anything - the bed ended at his shins, the bath was baby-sized, trés petite.
But hey, while you were bent over in half, showering, you could see the top of the most romantic tower in the world out the window.
It may have been Misérable, but we loved every giddy moment of it.
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