"Alright, Miss Isabelle, what would you like?" Rory asks, walking down the aisles of a grocery store near our hotel.

"I was thinking, like, cheese and baguettes, because isn't that the most French thing to eat?" A French mother and her kid walks by and rolls her eyes at my American knowledge of other countries. "Or not." Rory dies of laughter.

Her arms are full of grapes and various cheeses, when we meet by the cash register. I am carrying a large baguette, a thin picnic blanket, and a bottle of wine (the drinking age for wine in France is 16).

We pay for the stuff and awkwardly carry it all to Champ de Mars, chastising ourselves for not bringing a basket.

A decent amount of people are lounging on the grass. We find a spot with a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower without tons of people blocking it.

I lay out the blanket and set the food up, realizing that there are no plates, knives nor glasses.

"Shit." Rory comes to the same conclusion.

"Well that's inconvenient." She kneels on the blanket and looks at our haul. "I could always go and buy something, or we could just rip with bread and drink from the bottle."

"Which do you prefer?"

"I honestly don't care."

"Alright, I guess we'll make do." I sit on the blanket and she hands me a chunk of bread. I grab one of the cheeses and awkwardly try to spread it on the bread. Rory laughs at my attempt, and I laugh as she fails to do better. She puts a few grapes on top of the cheese and takes a bite.

"Is it good with the grapes?" I inquire thoughtfully.

She chews and says, "Here, try some," she holds out the bread for her to bite. I lift her hand to reach the bread. Making sure to get a grape in the bite, I tear a piece off with my teeth. As I bite down, the grape bursts and adds a peculiar sensation.

"Do you like it?" She asks hopefully.

"It's wonderful." Her beaming face makes it even better.

We talk for hours, eating and sipping on wine. The Eiffel Tower watches us until it's dark and lanterns perched along the street, the shop lights, and the full moon are the only sources of light. Rory's head is laying on my lap. My fingers lightly and carefully stroke her hair, eventually settling on her stomach.

People sleepily drift by, and while the city is still awake, it feels like we are the only ones conscious.

We stay there a while, listening to the sounds of Paris.