When traveling, I am always taken by the thought that it was just too easy to get there. I never felt that way merely crossing the continent, but there was something about crossing an ocean. The sidewalk felt just like a sidewalk at home, but it was not. It was a French sidewalk covered with French grime under French feet in French air. We walked down the block and past a few shops, around the corner, and into a patisserie we couldn’t resist. The pastries were colorful and arranged as they would never be arranged back home. Sarah loved the art of it, but still all she wanted was a pain au chocolat. I watched her bite into it, eyes closed. She giggled at the explosion of crumbs and flakes, said, “Parfait.” Meg smiled the way she smiled the first time we put Sarah in a swing at the playground. The child’s smile and laughter were irresistible, and Meg smiled until her face hurt. She was in pain but could not stop laughing and couldn’t bring herself to end Sarah’s pleasure. I ached similarly. I remembered our daughter’s chubby cheeks, so fat that one could see them from behind. She had grown through the air into a tall, thin girl with long feet. As she enjoyed her treat, I hoped that she could not see the sadness in me.

We walked to the Jardin du Luxembourg and through the park. I wanted to sit by the boat pond, but Sarah and Meg convinced me it was too cold.

“I wish I had a boat,” I said.

“Would that make you happy, Daddy?”

“A red boat.”

“I’m hungry,” Meg said. “For food, not pastries.”

“I know where we should eat,” Sarah said. “The Café de la Mairie. It’s really old fashioned. Look it up on your phone.”

Meg did. “It’s not far. Saint-Sulpice.”

“Let’s do it,” I said. “Allons-y.”

We chatted over an authentic and truly plain meal, complete with a waiter whose rudeness was amplified to entertain tourists. He was amusing and harmless enough. The people watching was fun, but I was out on my feet. I believed I could make the walk back to the hotel, but I wouldn’t last much longer than that. I followed along as we made our way back. At dusk the holiday lights were soft, white, beautiful. My daughter was happy.

After all that exhaustion and wanting to sleep, when I got the chance, I couldn’t do it. I lay in bed and watched strange talk shows, stranger variety shows, dubbed American cop shows from the nineties, but no sleep. Finally, I switched off the set and was reminded how difficult it is to not think.