On the 19th, day 3 of my time in Paris, day 8 of my time abroad, after Kathleen and I went to the Louvre for the second time, we went for a stroll through the Jardin de Tuilleries (forgive misspellings). We sat on a bench and watched a fountain play gently on the water, a ferris wheel gradually working through revolutions, and ate jambon and cheese baguette sandwich number 20.
The Louvre takes a lot out of a person.
We eventually began working our way through the Tuilleries, exiting the gardens almost directly onto the Champs Elysees. We were on our next mission: the Arc du Triomph. You can barely see the Arc at the end of the tree-lined avenue.
We thought we were pretty close, and yahooed, and strode forward with renewed energy. Half an hour later, this is how close we were. Which is to say, not close. We took a break from the pushing crowd by popping into a souvenir shop-- the human race travels in swarms on the Champs, which is a huge shopping street-- and pushed on.
When we got to the Arc, we again yahooed too soon. Neither one of us realized that we would be climbing to the top on our own two feet, and in a cramped, circular stairwell at that. This engaged our calves in some serious business.
Almost all the way to the top, we got to take a breather-- from the narrow stairwell, we entered into this vast, open area. There was a gift shop, of course. 
One more flight of steps, and we gained open air and a magnificent bird's eye view of the city. This kind of view is totally worth pain. Welcome to France, ladies and gentlemen.
