The last time we saw Paris, our hearts were middle-aged and gay. And, to evoke another song, it was April in Paris, and we had a garret room in a funky hotel on the Rive Gauche, one block from the Seine, surrounded by cobblestone alleys leading everywhere, and we walked and walked and walked, stopping at sidewalk cafes for cafe au lait and croissants and to watch the people and the dogs of Paris wander by.

We did all the proper tourist things. We went up the Eiffel Tower (shoved by Parisian children), we took a boat along the Seine, and we even went to the Paris Opera for a totally bizarre production of “Faust.” We also checked out a bird market, hobnobbed with Dick's Parisian relatives, sat at the cafe at the corner of our street watching passing entertainers, and perused the book stalls along the river. We ogled the gargoyles at Notre Dame, we saw the Arc de Triomphe at night...you know, we behaved like Americans in Paris, with cameras slung around our necks.

We tracked down lavender honey for a friend back home...and a bicycle cap for another. We spent time in the Louvre, gawking at some of the most famous art in the Western world. And, by accident, we crashed a Greek wedding party on our final night in Paris, where the waiters danced with the guests, and everyone broke the crockery. We ate skewers of grilled seafood, laughed, drank, and vowed to return.

You see, we'd always heard that Paris was for lovers...but the truth we learned is that Paris is really for the food.

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