It was a cold and grey Parisian day when D and I queued for a zillion years to climb the Eiffel Tower. Okay so "a zillion years" is clearly an ever-so-slight exaggeration, but we were there for a long time, and it didn't help that we initially joined the wrong queue for something like 45 minutes, although I cannot now for the life of me remember what was wrong about it ... I think that perhaps we were happy to climb the stairs rather than take the lifts (work off those French pastries!), but the queues all snaked around so much that we couldn't quite tell which was which and then wound up in the wrong one before realising and then having to start queueing all over again.* Merde.
* In case you were wondering why we didn't just stay in the lift queue, it was the end of our trip and we were trying to save money, so we just wanted stair tickets to the second floor as they were only five euro each. In addition, D hates heights so there was no point going all the way to the top as he probably would have spent the whole time up there feeling rubbish.
Anyway, I was going to say "back to the story," but that really is the story, I guess. We queued and queued and queued, and then we climbed the stairs and got puffed, and then we took photos of lovely Paris from a modest height. I just love all those creams and greys ...
All photographs © Natasha Calhoun