Having completed what the Army considered a two-year hardship tour of duty at Fort Knox in Kentucky, I was rewarded with an overseas assignment to West Germany in 1987. My wife and I planned to see all of Europe while stationed there. She and I accumulated a pile of European travel brochures and poured over them each evening.

In 1987, Labor Day Monday fell on September 7th. Commensurate with our plan, we parked our car on the Ramstein Air Base on Friday, September 4th, and boarded a tour bus for our first of many weekend excursions. On this Friday evening of a three-day-weekend, we were off to Paris.

The bus crossed the border during the night, and we got our passports stamped by the French. We would eventually run out of room for all the temporary visas we collected from the twenty-eight countries we visited, some repeatedly, over the next three years.

We were in France. I grinned at my wife and said in my limited German, Willkommen nach Frankreich, meaning “Welcome to France.”

She responded in her fluent French with, Merci beaucoup, meaning “Thank you very much.”

The French auto route, similar to the German Autobahn, or an Interstate in the United States, passed by Nancy, Metz, and Rheims. We arrived in Paris in time for a French breakfast, known as a petit dejeuner, and a French breakfast was certainly petite; only orange juice, croissant, and coffee. Then we were off to explore the city. And we did it all.

Later that day, we looked from our Holiday Inn hotel room down onto the Place de la Republique. A huge rotary encircled the plaza, and seven lanes of French automobiles simultaneously merged into three lanes around the rotary, with horns blaring. There were no lane markings. I glanced at my wife as we enjoyed a pre-dinner drink, observing French gridlock. I asked somewhat facetiously, “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

She chuckled and said, “I don't know about seeing anything like it, but I've never heard anything like it.” We both laughed, as the monumental level of horn-honking infiltrated our room.

I asked her, “How did you enjoy our first day in the "City of Love," Liebling?” Liebling was German for “dearest.”

She said authoritatively, “It's the "City of Light," darling.”

I arched an eyebrow and said, “When we return from the Moulin Rouge, my love, we'll see whether our room will fill with light or love.” A hug and a kiss ensued.

My wife's face brightened the room as she said ecstatically, “Wow. What a whirlwind tour. The Eiffel Tower; the Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile and the Champs Elysees; and the Louvre, to observe Winged Victory, Venus de Milo, and of course, the Mona Lisa.”

I sighed as I said, “I never realized the Mona Lisa was so small.” I held my hands up to indicate its size. “When it's behind that glass partition with about a thousand tourists craning their necks to look, we were lucky to get even a peek at her.”

She grinned. “Ah, but tonight we take a Bâteau Mouche down the Seine to view the left and right banks at night, under the lights, in the City of Light.”

I smiled as I nodded, “And after the boat ride, we'll be treated to a typical tourist's French dinner before heading off to Pigalle for a tour of Montmarte and Painter's Square before attending the midnight show at the Moulin Rouge. When will we sleep?”

She kissed my cheek. “We'll sleep all we want when back to our house in the tiny village of Bann, West Germany. Right now, we're in Paris, the City of Love.”

The following morning, a few bleary-eyed members of our group made it to the bus on time. Our tour guide grimaced as she said grimly, “We'll have to leave without them.” She motioned the driver to move on to the Versailles Palace. If late on a Sunday morning, we would end up about a mile back in the line of tourists.

That afternoon, while we were on our own, we walked the streets of Paris. Rilda spoke fluent French. We stopped at the Café de Paris, an out-door café across from the Opera House. My wife asked the garçon, “Veuillez nous apporter le chèque, s'il vous plaît?” She asked our waiter for the check.

When presented with a fifty-franc check, I almost fell out of my chair. I said incredulously, “Ten dollars for one beer and one coffee? How do Parisians afford it?”

She chuckled. “They don't drink at the Café de Paris.”

I said hopefully, “Then you won't mind having lunch on a street corner?” I paid the check with a fifty-franc note, and to be smart, put down an American one-dollar bill for the tip. The garçon grabbed it and grimaced as he pocketed it.

We approached a cart on the corner where I tried my high school and college French. I pointed to a baguette and smiled at the vendor. “Pouvons nous acheter deux baguettes, s'il te plaît?” I had asked him for two baguettes and we both enjoyed a French hot dog, stuffed into a soft French roll lined with French mustard, for a few French francs.

We later learned that the Café de Paris was the most expensive café in Paris.

We walked along the right bank of the Seine, and browsed through book stalls. We sat on a bench, enjoying Paris's beautiful September weather, and watched the Bâteaux Mouches cruise the river. We recalled our own boat ride of the evening before.

That beautiful scenic excursion began at the Port de l'Alma on the right bank, and immediately turned to the left, so the left bank was on our right. The boat passed under eight bridges on its way to the Isle de la Cité. There, on our left, the Statue of Charlemagne was pointed out. Then the beautifully lit Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris came into view. After five more bridges, the boat turned around at Canal St. Martin, just past the Ile St. Louis, so the right bank was on our right. When we passed once again the Ile de la Cité, the Palais de Justice was on our left, and before it, the Conciergerie.

My wife cringed when told Marie Antoinette spent her last night, imprisoned in the Conciergerie, before being introduced, and subsequently losing her head, to Dr. Guillotine's famous blade. Then it was The Louvre on our right, with the Jardin des Tuileries, before we approached the Place de la Concorde, with its 3300-year-old Egyptian obelisk, the Obelisque de Louqsor. We passed the Port de l'Alma on our right and continued on the Seine until we saw on our left, the Eiffel Tower, magnificently bathed in all its light.

I turned to my wife with a huge smile and said firmly, “That's why Paris is the City of Light.”

She returned my smile and said pleasantly, “No, silly.” She kissed my cheek. “That's why it's the City of Love.”

When I turned toward the front of the bâteau, I almost fell off my seat. Before us was a small replica of the Statue of Liberty. I said in amazement, “Isn't that something? It looks exactly like her. I forgot it was France who gave Liberty to the United States back in 1876 to commemorate our country's centennial."

My wife's eyes crinkled as she said, “It must have been quite a thrill when a ship filled with immigrants passed by her on its way into New York Harbor.”

The boat turned around, and now we had the Eiffel Tower that is on the right bank, on our right. It was difficult keeping the right and left banks straight, and whether they were on our left, or on our right.

We finished reminiscing about the boat ride and walked onto the Ile St. Louis, where at Berthillon's on the Rue St. Louis we enjoyed a famous French ice cream cone.

That evening, we dined alone, away from the group and tour guide. I enjoyed Couscous Royal while my wife took great pleasure in devouring escargot. I was amazed that she liked snails. Again I tried out the French language, but the response of the garçon reminded me of what Mark Twain said after his visit to Paris. “In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language”.

The next morning we toured the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, on the Ile de la Cité, on neither the left or right bank. On this little island in the middle of the Seine River, Paris originated some two thousand years ago, known at first as Lutece. Heeding our tour guide's warning in regard to pickpockets, I transferred my French francs, German marks, and American dollars to my right, front pants pocket and wrapped my hand firmly about them. Then it was up the Hill of Martyrs to an eleventh-century church, the Sacré Coeur.

Before we left Paris, we stopped briefly at the grand Flea Market. My right hand was cemented in my right, front, pants pocket. Returning to Germany, we stopped in Rheims, to visit its famous Cathedral, and toured a champagne distillery.

It was evening when we were deposited back at Ramstein, and later when we returned to Am Ameisenhubel Einse, our house in Bann. We immediately scooted into bed and instantly fell asleep dreaming about the City of Light, or the City of love. It is all the same to me.