When my parents and I were in the booking process for England, I begged them to relinquish some time away from London. When they asked if I meant something like heading to Blackpool for a day, I giggled and told them, quite simply, no. In response to their muddled faces, I told them that I wanted to go somewhere world-renowned, somewhere magical and beautiful, somewhere fascinating and somewhere sophisticated with a great general sense of style and a groundbreaking arts & culture scene. Basically, somewhere we wouldn’t want to leave. After a very confusing and somewhat hilarious 10 minute conversation about where else I could want to go, I finally told them that I wanted to go to the one, the only, Paris. They laughed and I honestly don’t think they took me seriously, until my dad texted me from work telling me that I needed to cough up $57 CAD for the train ticket and that we’d leave at 7:06 AM on our first Wednesday there. Was I excited? No. I was ecstatic.