From Gyros to Croissants: The Final Lap of Our Spring Break Showdown

Our Spring Break extravaganza is winding down, folks. After gallivanting across Greece like gods on Mount Olympus, we're wrapping things up with a little Parisian flair for the final two days before heading back to reality. Yes, we’re trading in gyros and ancient ruins for croissants and the Eiffel Tower—because we’re cultured like that.

Throughout this odyssey, we’ve hopped on more airlines than a frequent flyer with commitment issues. And today? We proudly add Aegean Airlines to our growing list. Now, did we forget to add carry-on luggage to our ticket? Absolutely. Are we new here? Apparently. As we sat at the gate, contemplating life choices, a flight attendant strutted through the lounge like a baggage bounty hunter, scanning for untagged bags. Busted. She politely redirected us to the counter, where a cheerful young lady tagged our bags, threw us a pity discount, and only charged us 36 euros total. Honestly, it felt like a Black Friday win.

The flight? A scenic hop from Crete to Athens (with a thrilling three-hour layover to practice patience) and then onward to the one and only Paris.

Now listen, my brother and sister-in-law were gracious enough to host us in Greece at their Airbnb, so naturally, I felt obligated—nay, inspired—to throw down for the fancy stays in Amsterdam and Paris. So yes, we booked the Paris Marriott Champs-Elysées. Yes, it’s down the street from the Arc de Triomphe. And yes, normally I’m a Motel 6 kind of traveler (they leave the light on for me, after all). But every now and then, you gotta live like royalty on a travel influencer’s budget.

We touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport, also known as Roissy, a charming labyrinth designed by someone who clearly hated travelers. If you’ve ever flown into LAX, you know catching an Uber there is a full-blown mission. Now imagine that, but French and underground. We had to navigate the terminal maze, decipher signage that may or may not have been in Klingon, and descend into a concrete jungle where Uber drivers lurk like rare Pokémon. Ours was “technically there,” but it still took us 30 minutes to make contact. Think spy movie meets scavenger hunt, but with more bags and less cool music.

But hey—we made it to Paris. And that’s all that matters.

“From Swan Sculptures to Secret Agents: Our Five-Star McMission in Paris”

The Uber glided up to the hotel like a well-rehearsed scene from a Bond film. And there he was—our doorman—draped in a long gray overcoat and sporting a chapeau that said, “I take my hat game very seriously.” He greeted us at the lower level entrance (yes, the movie-style lower level) and guided us inside with the kind of flair that made me wonder if there’d be theme music playing.

Inside, we were immediately greeted by marble floors, a glowing lobby, and a staircase so ornate and winding it looked like Cinderella’s preferred route. Of course, we considered our options—left to the escalator, right to the grand staircase—and quickly concluded: knees don’t lie. Escalator it is.

We ascended into what can only be described as a jaw-dropping hotel interior. It was Easter weekend, and the place looked like the cover of Luxury Living Monthly. Flowers were elegantly arranged on entrance tables, and at the bar directly across from check-in stood a hand-sculpted swan. Yes, a literal swan made of chocolate or sugar or magic. The lobby curved in a way that made you feel hugged by the architecture, and when you looked up—bam!—a glass-domed ceiling so beautiful I forgot my own name for a second. It was a true wow moment.

It was about 9:30 p.m. when we reached the check-in desk, and just as I locked eyes with the attendant, he said, “Mr. Arkadie, I presume?”

Now that gave me pause.

Facial recognition? Psychic powers? Was I being recruited by Interpol? My mind raced. But alas, I realized I was probably the last guest scheduled to check in that evening. The mystery dissolved, but the cool factor remained. He took my ID and our passports (because, for reasons unknown, every international hotel needs to feel like a Cold War drama), then handed us the keys.

While chatting, I casually mentioned that I’d been to Paris several times and had strolled the Champs-Élysées like a seasoned flâneur (French for wonderer) but I didn’t recall the Marriott ever being here. That’s when the attendant dropped a little Parisian bombshell: “Ah, monsieur, this building used to be Louis Vuitton’s flagship. Marriott purchased the building, and Louis Vuitton moved across the street.” (More on that swanky real estate shuffle later...)

Our room was warm, elegant, and comfortable—but our stomachs were staging a full-blown protest. We needed food. Fast. Memorable. Hot. And just outside the hotel, like a shimmering oasis in the Parisian night, we spotted it: McDonald’s. Judge all you want, but sometimes nothing hits quite like fries and familiarity after a long day of international jet-setting.

The wife suggested we take it to go. I paused, considered it, and said, “No, we’re eating here.” Why? Because the thought of walking through the lavish lobby of the Marriott Champs-Élysées with a McDonald’s bag felt like sneaking a fast-food burger into a black-tie gala. Even I have standards.

Some countries take “carbon footprint” seriously... and then there’s Paris, where they turn sustainability into an art form. Our McDonald’s meal was served not in the usual throwaway wrappers, but with an eco-luxe upgrade: a plastic French fry container, a reusable bowl for the nuggets, and sturdy plastic cups for our drinks. No straws. All items were washable and reusable—no landfill elevation here, folks. It was like dining at the IKEA of fast food, but make it Parisian.

Even McDonald’s in Paris has a flair for presentation—and apparently, a conscience too.

Fashion, Flânerie, and a Little Retail Reconnaissance

Morning in Paris. There’s just something about waking up in the City of Light that makes you feel like anything is possible—like you could casually solve a mystery, write a novel, or spend a week’s salary on a scarf and somehow not regret it.

We woke up refreshed in our elegant Marriott Champs-Élysées suite, the kind of place where even the shower pressure has attitude.

We meandered down to breakfast near the lobby and enjoyed a decadent breakfast overlooking the Blvd. which was covered by points on my Bonvoy card. The only thing that wasn’t covered was the Coke Lite (Diet Coke) which cost 10 Euro, but who can complain when you just saved 70 Euros on breakfast.

 After admiring the view (and confirming that yes, the Arc de Triomphe was still being its majestic self just up the street), we headed out for a leisurely stroll up the boulevard to the Metro/Train station.

But first, I had a mission to complete—Operation: Louis Vuitton.

You see, after the hotel attendant casually mentioned the Marriott used to be the Louis Vuitton building, my curiosity kicked into high gear. That’s like finding out your room used to be the birthplace of haute couture. So we crossed the street like fashionable detectives, following the golden trail of designer bags and well-heeled tourists.

 And there it was: Louis Vuitton’s new flagship, standing across from its former home like it owned the block (which, let’s be honest, it probably does). The building itself? A full-blown statement. It resembled one of their iconic travel chests—complete with silver-toned clasps, corner buckles, and enough swagger to intimidate every credit card within a three-block radius. Bigger. Shinier. More architecturally intimidating. If old money and new money had a baby, this building would be its college graduation gift.

We didn’t go in self-control and suitcase space, remember? but the message was clear: Louis didn’t move across the street... he relocated with authority. We left without making a purchase—because self-control is free, and suitcases are only so big—but we left feeling ten percent fancier, which is really all you can ask for on a casual Louis Vuitton recon.

 Lost in Translation, Found on the Metro

With only two days in Paris, the clock was ticking and my sightseeing checklist wasn’t going to check itself. First stop: the Paris Métro station just outside the Arc de Triomphe—Charles de Gaulle – Étoile—a major hub connecting Métro lines 1, 2, and 6, as well as the RER A (that’s Paris-speak for “Regional Express Network,” or, in tourist terms, the train that can either be your best friend or worst enemy).

As I was plotting out our route to see as much of the city as humanly possible, my wife smiled and dropped a little surprise: she had booked us a sunset dinner cruise on the Seine River. That’s right—booked through Viator, because at this point, we might as well be getting loyalty points.

This wasn’t just any boat ride. This cruise glides right past the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and the Musée d'Orsay—all of which were on my must-see list. The only problem? Everyone online said the boat is nearly impossible to find. Naturally, we decided to head to the Eiffel Tower early and sniff it out, Inspector Clouseau style.

So, we hopped over to Line 6 of the Métro, which takes you straight to Bir-Hakeim—the closest station to the Eiffel Tower. But before you ride the Métro, you need a ticket. And this, my friends, is where things got interesting.

We walked up to the ticket machine like confident travelers who’d watched exactly one YouTube video. Fifteen minutes later, we were still standing there, squinting at buttons, second-guessing every selection, and considering a career change to subway map interpreter. Finally, we threw in the towel and shuffled over to the ticket window.

Best decision of the day.

The attendant—an angel in human form—told us to just buy a day pass for today, then purchase an RER ticket to the airport tomorrow. Simple. Brilliant. Economical. We were ready to drop 26 euros on separate tickets, but thanks to her advice, we spent just 13 euros. That’s what I call a travel win.

We thanked her profusely—partly in broken French, mostly in broken English—and with tickets in hand, we hopped onto Line 6 feeling like seasoned Parisians. Okay, maybe not seasoned, but at least marinated.

Moral of the story? Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Especially when the alternative is arguing with a touchscreen in a foreign language while other commuters judge your life choices.

Olympic Dreams, Museum Mayhem, and a Date With Destiny (and Dinner)

We exited the Bir-Hakeim Métro station, ready to take on the Eiffel Tower. After a short walk through the city’s picturesque streets, the Iron Lady herself came into view. But we weren’t alone. Oh no—we were joined by what looked like every tourist on the planet and possibly a few time travelers from the 1800s.

If you were a bird flying overhead, the crowd below would’ve looked like a chaotic ant colony surrounding a sugar cube. What once stood as a proud, solitary tower in an open park is now encased in plexiglass, security gates, and a maze of entry points. Just looking at the crowd gave me a mild PTSD flashback to TSA lines during holiday weekends.

We took a moment to appreciate the architecture—snapped a few photos from the outside like true pros—and swiftly bypassed the line. Why? Because we spotted something much more inviting and far less claustrophobic: the Olympic Rings standing at a distance like a beacon of hope for non-line-waiters. And yes, they too had a line... but only a 5-minute one. A Parisian miracle.

Naturally, we posed like Olympic champions (gold in synchronized strolling), took our obligatory selfies, and kept the momentum going. We began strolling along the Seine River, soaking up the views, the breeze, and the mysterious joy of not knowing where our dinner boat was.

We passed several fancy-looking boats docked along the riverbank, each one teasing us with linen-covered tables and softly clinking wine glasses. Which one was ours? Who knows!

That’s when we finally did what any rational human would’ve done from the start—we called someone to ask. Brilliant, right? We got the name of the boat… but guess what? It still wasn’t there. Maybe it was refueling. Maybe it was being cleaned. Maybe it was stuck in traffic—who knows. Either way, we had time to kill, and legs to stretch.

So we continued our walk down the Seine to the Louvre. Because, hey, we’re in Paris! Why not add a little culture to our cardio?

But the Louvre lines made the Eiffel Tower look like a Starbucks queue. I’m talking galactic crowds. Like "free Beyoncé tickets in Times Square" crowded. It was honestly hard to tell which line was worse. We looked. We sighed. Strike two.

Then my wife, ever the optimist, said, “Is there anywhere else you want to go? ”Well,” I replied, “there’s always the Orsay Museum.”

“Do you think the line there will be just as bad? ”Surely not,” I said confidently. “How many people can possibly want to go to a museum during spring break?”

Cue the Umpire: Strike three—and you’re outta here!

The Orsay had the smallest line of all three museums—but it was still a two-to-three-hour wait. We looked at each other, shared a moment of mutual disappointment… and hunger. Because what do you do when Paris says “non” to all your plans?

You find a café, grab something delicious to eat, and regroup. Then you locate the nearest Métro station and move on like a champion.

So what did we learn from this lesson?

1. Proper Planning Prevents Poor Performance or

2. Lines in Paris are like baguettes—long, everywhere, and unavoidable,

3. If at first you don’t succeed—find a café, order something with cheese, and remember even your worst day in Paris is still better than your best day in L.A. traffic.

4. All of the above!

Brie, Blue Cheese & Bathroom Hunts – The Real Parisian Experience

So, we grabbed a burger and fries at a cozy little sidewalk café and let me tell you—this wasn’t your average cheeseburger. I had one of the best Brie and Blue Cheese burgers I’ve ever had. And I mean ever. Juicy, funky, melty goodness with the kind of flavor that makes you question your entire fast-food upbringing. As we munched and sipped, we people-watched like true professionals—tourists posing awkwardly, Parisians strutting with effortless style, and scooters zipping by like caffeinated bees.

We weren’t alone for long. A gentleman from Minnesota, cane in hand and stories in his heart, joined our conversation. He’d recently lost his partner and was traveling solo, looking for connection and meaning in the City of Light. For a few minutes, we were strangers no more—he shared quiet Parisian corners and little-known gems to explore. Then, with a gentle goodbye in well-practiced French, he tapped his cane and disappeared into the crowd like a character out of a Hemingway novel.

Recharged and inspired, we made our way back toward the hotel—Metro-hopping pros by now—when it hit us… we needed a restroom. Badly.

Then, like a beacon of budget fashion hope, we spotted an H&M. Now, my brother-in-law swears that the Paris H&M is the next best thing to thrifting in a gold mine, so we figured we’d kill two birds: find something reasonably stylish to wear on our dinner cruise and locate a bathroom before one of us resorted to international embarrassment.

Unfortunately, H&M was a letdown on both fronts—nothing in my size, and no facilities for the desperate. But the associate there, sensing my pain (possibly from the look on my face), pointed us across the street to Galeries Lafayette.

Now let me just say this: Galeries Lafayette Paris Haussmann isn’t just a department store—it’s a fashion cathedral. With its soaring Art Nouveau glass dome, ornate ironwork, and grand staircase, it looked like Versailles and a Vogue photoshoot had a baby. Every floor sparkled with designer brands and haute couture, and I half expected to see models gracefully floating down the escalators.

But here’s the real surprise—the higher you went up, the more affordable things got. Forget ground-floor Gucci, head up to the clouds for deals. And just when you think it can’t get any better, the building boasts one of the best rooftop terraces in Paris, offering panoramic views of the city, including the Eiffel Tower. It’s the kind of view that makes you want to hum the “Midnight in Paris” soundtrack while pretending to be deep in thought. And thank the travel gods, the restrooms were on the sixth floor, tucked beside racks of sale-priced scarves and discount leather jackets. Sweet, sweet relief.

At that moment, somewhere between high fashion and bladder salvation, I realized: This is Paris. Unexpected conversations, gourmet burgers, emotional detours, and golden restrooms tucked behind designer handbags.

After a delightful hot madeleine or two on the 6th floor of Galeries Lafayette, we headed back to the Metro and returned to our hotel to rest before venturing across town for our evening cruise down the Seine River.

Later that evening, we dressed to the nines in our best travel attire—jeans and a dress shirt/blouse—and set out toward the river under what appeared to be a beautiful Parisian evening. I did say "appeared," right?

As we approached the Metro station, a light mist began to fall, which quickly turned into a steady drizzle. We had no slickers, no parkas, and absolutely no umbrellas. Though we didn’t get completely soaked, we got extremely wet, darting from awning to canopy like contestants in a rain-drenched obstacle course.

Thankfully, we had done a bit of recon earlier in the day, because otherwise, we never would have found our boat. It was moored alongside another vessel, and to reach it, we had to walk across that one—like pirates about to walk the plank.

As we crossed the threshold onto our river dinner cruise boat—soaked, windblown, and feeling like extras in a low-budget Parisian rom-com—my wife, the dynamic diva that she is, decided the moment called for drama. With the grace of a Broadway star and the balance of a baby giraffe on roller skates, she launched into what can only be described as a full-body interpretive dance. Arms flailing, feet slipping, she executed a perfect half-spin before landing squarely on her derrière with a theatrical thud that echoed off the Seine. And yet—miraculously—she never dropped her cellphone. Nope. Not even a scratch. She held that thing high above her head like Rafiki presenting Simba, eyes locked on me like, "Did you get the shot?"

We had splurged for the window seat—because who wouldn’t want to float down the Seine with a glass of wine in hand, watching the glittering lights of Paris drift by? Unfortunately, reality had other plans. Between the relentless rain and the fact that the boat rode lower in the water than expected, our "premium view" mostly consisted of river spray, fogged-up glass, and the occasional blurred outline of disappointment. The only clear sight was the Eiffel Tower—because, well, it’s legally required to photobomb every Paris photo.

Had the skies been clear, I’m sure we could’ve wandered up to the upper deck for stunning views of Notre Dame, the Orsay Museum, and all the other postcard-worthy landmarks. But instead, we stayed dry(ish) below deck and settled into conversation with our fellow passengers—Americans from across the U.S. and a romantic (and suspiciously well-dressed) French couple seated beside us.

Now, my classic dad jokes usually get at least a pity laugh in the States. But tonight? Nothing. Crickets. My wife leaned over, patted my hand, and whispered, “It’s not the language barrier. They’re just... not funny.” Oof.

Then came the first course. A tone-setter, if there ever was one: foie gras or a seafood appetizer. Now, foie gras, in case you’ve never Googled your dinner mid-meal, is the fattened liver of a duck or goose. And not just any fattened liver—it’s lovingly bulked up via a centuries-old French process known as gavage, which is a fancy word for “force-feeding.” Yum?

We went with the seafood. Meanwhile, we watched the faces of the unsuspecting foie gras tasters at our table—particularly the women—shift from curiosity... to confusion... to horror. One poor lady looked like she’d just learned she ate a character from Finding Nemo with a backstory.

Thankfully, after the foie gras fiasco, the main course arrived, and spirits lifted (mostly because we all decided wine could solve everything). The food was actually quite good—classic French cuisine, beautifully plated, served with that effortless flair only Parisians can pull off. My wife leaned over and whispered, “This makes up for the surprise liver talk.”

I nodded, chewing something I couldn’t pronounce but was too proud to admit it.

Conversation flowed, the wine glasses stayed full, and despite the weather, the boat glided along like it had somewhere to be—slow, smooth, and romantic in that wet dog in a tuxedo kind of way.

And then… there it was.

The Eiffel Tower.

Suddenly, the gloom didn’t matter. Rain streaked the windows, and yes, I had a sock that had been wet since 6:47 p.m., but for that brief moment, the boat turned just enough, and we saw her—La Tour Eiffel—lit up and shimmering like she knew we needed a little magic. And right on cue, the sparkle show began.

If you’ve never seen the Eiffel Tower sparkle at night, it’s like someone took the world’s most glamorous bottle of champagne and turned it into a building. Everyone on the boat stopped. Phones came out, heads tilted, and a collective “ooooh” floated through the cabin like we were all five years old again watching fireworks.

My wife looked at me, mascara slightly smudged from the rain and laughter, and said, “Okay. This is worth every soggy euro.”

We clinked glasses. Mine was still half full of red wine. Hers was half full of rainwater. But that’s Paris, isn’t it? Slightly unpredictable, occasionally inconvenient, but completely unforgettable.

After the cruise, we disembarked like two damp hobbits returning from an epic quest—hair frizzy, shoes squishing, and still no umbrellas in sight. The romantic French couple bid us farewell with a knowing smile (possibly pity), and we sloshed our way back to the Metro like two seasoned professionals who’d clearly underestimated Paris in spring.

By the time we got back to the hotel, our jeans were basically denim sponges, and my once-crisp dress shirt looked like I’d been attacked by a rogue cappuccino machine. My wife, ever the optimist, declared it "Parisian-chic: post-apocalyptic edition."

We peeled off our soggy layers, flopped onto the bed, and let out a simultaneous sigh that only comes after walking half the city in the rain and almost dislocating a hip boarding a boat. Room service felt ambitious, so we settled for the world’s most glamorous dinner: leftover madeleines from earlier in the day and a half-melted chocolate bar we found in my backpack. Five stars.

As we lay there, laughing at our own ridiculousness, I looked at my wife and said, “You know, this might be one of my favorite nights although I am not sure you would agree.”

But it really was. Not because it was perfect—but because it wasn’t.

Rain-soaked. Mistaken entrees. Slippery gangplanks. Bad jokes. Beautiful views. And a city that sparkled anyway.

Paris gave us the chaos and the charm all in one night—and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next morning, we packed our bags, gave the hotel room one last nostalgic glance, and made the bold (some might say budget-conscious) decision to skip the Uber and take the RER train to Orly Airport. Because nothing says “glamorous international travel” quite like hauling luggage through cobblestone streets and trying to look cool while deciphering French train signs with sleepy eyes and croissant crumbs on your shirt.

But before boarding the Metro, we made one final stop at culinary heaven: Pierre Hermé. Voted Best Pastry Chef in the World in 2016 by the Academy of the World’s 50 Best Restaurants and named one of the most influential French people by Vanity Fair, this man didn’t just make macarons—he crafted edible joy in pastel form. Naturally, we grabbed a box (or three) for the road and for our friends and family and boarded the train. Surprisingly, the ride was smooth, efficient, and almost relaxing—if you ignore the one rogue suitcase wheel that refused to cooperate.

Once at Orly, we checked in with yet another discount airline, this time charmingly named French Bee.

Macarons in hand, we boarded our French Bee flight home, buckled up, and headed off to Beverly… Hills, that is. Swimmin’ pools. Movie stars. And now, thanks to Paris, maybe a few extra pounds and one very bruised tailbone.

Now, I know what you're thinking—"discount airline" and “delicious in-flight meal” don’t usually belong in the same sentence. But French Bee surprised us. Not only was the food hot, it was actually delicious—which made us question everything we thought we knew about airline cuisine (and bees).

À bientôt (See you soon), Paris. You were wet, wild, and wonderful. We’ll be back—with umbrellas.