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listening to the vintage Serge Gainsbourg playing softly in the background. In Paris, café culture was practically a religion.
    "Well, we're only here for seven days," Diego replied, reaching into his messenger bag and to Alexa's horror taking out a large, glossy Frommer's guidebook. "We should get in some sightseeing, don't you think?"
    Pardonnez-moi?
    Alexa stared at her boyfriend, not comprehending.
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    Sightseeing? Diego knew she was from Paris. By the age of seven, she'd already had the whole Notre Dame Arc de Triomphe Eiffel Tower gig down cold. Alexa St. Laurent had seen all there was to see in this city.
    "Like -- like which sights?" Alexa managed to ask, pulling her pale pink wallet out of her Chloe lizard bag; Diego had forgotten to exchange his dollars for euros at the airport, so she'd been the unofficial bank thus far.
    Diego shot her a sheepish grin and ducked his head. When he spoke, he addressed the guidebook in his lap. "Well... at the risk of sounding like those girls from the lobby, I've always wanted to, um, go to the top of the Eiffel Tower."
    Alexa gasped in shock, her manicured hands flying to her mouth. "Oh ... my God," she whispered, consumed by shame. Her boyfriend may as well have gotten down on all fours and started chewing on the tablecloth even that would have been preferable to this declaration. "Diego, no. You can't be serious."
    Alexa had always thought that the Eiffel Tower -- all graceful steel lacework -- was lovely. But the super-famous structure was also so, well, Kodak Moment Number One not to mention tainted by the gross Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes proposal that Alexa now
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    considered it no more than a cheesy tourist trap. She'd even torn up the photo of the tower that she'd once displayed on the bulletin board in her bedroom.
    "Would you hear me out?" Diego's dark eyes flashed. Both he and Alexa had a certain fire in their temperaments, which worked out nicely for some activities -- but could lead to angry flare-ups when they weren't getting it on. "You know I was only in Paris once before -- for that weekend with my parents and sister. We did, like, the two-second tour of the city, but we didn't even go to the Eiffel Tower."
    Alexa felt a slow, sinking dread in her stomach that told her this issue wasn't going to resolve itself any time soon. "It's just that there are so many better ways to spend our time here," she explained, trying to keep the sharpness out of her tone. "Like walking across the Pont-Neuf or shopping at Collete or --"
    Diego silenced her by leaning across the small table and taking her hands in his. "Alexa, think about it," he urged, his expression intense. "We could go at night. you and me, at the very top, the entire city spread out beneath us ..." He tilted his head, leaned in closer, and softly kissed her pouty bottom lip. "Remember?" he whispered, his dimples showing.
    Alexa nodded, weakening. How could she have forgotten? A year ago, she and Diego had shared a breathtaking rooftop experience in South Beach
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    and had been together ever since. This trip was supposed to be their anniversary, after all; it would be meaningful for the two of them to re-create that magical night.
    But Alexa wasn't ready to give in yet.
    As a compromise, she agreed to Diego's Frommer's-inspired suggestion that they hit up Montmartre, the funky Right Bank neighborhood where the domed, all-white basilica, Sacré-Coeur, stood. They left Café de Flore, rode the Métro to Abbesses ("The trains are so clean here!" Diego exclaimed loudly while Alexa looked for places to hide), and silently hiked up the steep hill to Sacré-Coeur, the tension still crackling between them.
    But being in Montmartre cheered Alexa up; she loved its crooked alleyways and slightly seedy atmosphere. Street vendors hawked piping-hot crêpes alongside miniature replicas of Sacré-Coeur, white-faced mimes performed for wide-eyed children, and wannabe artists perched on stools, sketching at their easels. While Diego