Google the most romantic city in the world and I guarantee you that Paris shows up at the top. Known as the “City of Love” and the “City of Lights,” its cobblestone streets abound with cozy corner cafés where couples can canoodle while sipping café au lait and munching on flakey croissants. And, of course, there are the scintillating lights of the Eiffel Tower, where close friends of mine got engaged. Ambient music abounds, thanks to street buskers. Everything about Gay Paree heightens one’s senses, creating a feeling of magic and wonder — similar, indeed, to the feeling of falling in love.

On our 21st wedding anniversary last September, my husband Chris and I head to RDU, but I’m the only one of us who will be boarding that JetBlue. From Raleigh, I fly to Boston, where I meet up with one of my very best friends, Chandra, and together we soar over the Atlantic, fulfilling a dream both of us have had for ages, landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Why Paris? To experience the art, architecture, cuisine and culture with the funniest human I know.

And Chris? We all know that Khalil Gibran quote: “If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. If they don’t, they never were.” I’ll return. Chris knows it.

He and I have spent years in this dance, but usually it’s me who is left behind tending to children, home and dogs — sometimes chickens — while Chris travels for work. But all of those nights I spent single-parenting have led me to this one great adventure. Chris selflessly books two rooms at the charming Hotel Relais du Louvre, admittedly thanks to points he’s accrued. And that’s how my best friend and I find ourselves celebrating the greatest platonic love there is in the most romantic spot on the globe.

Like me, Chandra is a pun-loving gal whose passions include wordsmithing, traveling, Taylor Swift, exploring new restaurants and foods, reading, memes, and basking in glorious memories of our ’80s childhoods. We’ve only been friends for five years, but when you know, you know. When she visited London a few years ago, she brought me back a ceramic jewelry dish with a sheep that reads, “Ewe are amazing.” Upon my opening it, her eyes filled as she exclaimed, “It’s a pun!” She just gets me.

We are not exactly culture vultures, determined like some are to pack into a short week every iconic tourist stop while honoring the grand dame of European culture. After all, who are we trying to impress? We quickly realize we are just a couple of Americans who will inevitably be labeled innocents abroad, so who cares? For instance, one day I pause outside a restaurant called Les Éditeurs and shout, “C’est moi!” Chandra snaps my pic. So what if we’re not exactly sophisticated connoisseurs of Parisian haute culture. But pop culture? We’ve got that in spades, so on another afternoon we also pay homage to the Emily in Paris Savoir office, posing outside the building’s door as if we were Lily Collins — minus the over-the-top fashion choices — on our way to work where we’ll create a silly hashtag that’s sure to solve a brand’s dilemma.

After we’ve dropped our bags at our hotel, stomachs rumbling, we wander to the closest corner, where the Café des Arts awaits. We take one look at the menu and, naturellement, decide upon le café and savory crêpes. Having won the prestigious French award (c’est du sarcasme) at my small high school, I attempt to revive the almost 30-year-slumbering skill to order. When our meals arrive, we hungrily dig in, our forks stretching the melty, gooey cheese while bits of ham tumble onto the plate. My French has not come back as smoothly as I’d hoped and when we ask our waiter to divide our check in half, I notice that he’s taken the liberty to add a couple euros to each. Garçon, my math has not escaped me. He all but rolls his French eyes at us when I protest.

Turns out, he is the only Frenchman to attempt to take advantage of our American-ness. Every other server and shop attendant we encounter appreciates my attempts to parle Français. And when I blunder, I shrug and say, “J’ai essayé,” (“I tried.”) That little three-word French phrase becomes the anthem to our trip, so much that when we stumble upon a Parisian tattoo parlor, we contemplate burning the memory into our flesh forever.

Over the course of the next week, we meander through surrounding arrondissements, shopping in St. Germain, Champs-Elysées, Le Marais and the Latin Quarter — with a stop at the renowned bookstore Shakespeare and Company — picking up souvenirs for our families. Both of us writers, we reverentially stroll by cafés once frequented by Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

We walk through the impeccably landscaped Luxembourg gardens and take a day trip to see Giverny, where Monet’s impressive grounds explode in vibrant colors, even in autumn. We pore over art at the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. We dare to be silly. Inside the walls of the Louvre, Chandra spies a painting of a naked woman holding a white rag that appears to be dirty. She leans over and whispers, “That one’s called Self Tanner.” We erupt in giggles.

We dine on buttery, smooth escargot, fromage of all sorts, beef bourguignon so tender it falls apart at the touch of a fork, so many croissants we should grow tired of them — but never do. In one establishment, Chandra tells me she has to go to the ladies room and says to me, “Oui, oui — oh, my first French pun!” And more than once, we indulge in our mutually favorite flavor of gelato, pistachio. A little nutty, a little sweet and a touch salty, just like us.

As a gift to ourselves, we hire a professional photographer, who spends a couple of hours with us one damp and gray morning. And while I’m certain that the photos will be atrocious, thanks to disgusting weather, when we receive the proofs, all I see is our gleeful joy at spending time together. We’re lucky it was in Paris, but it could have been in Ottawa, Canada, one of the most boring cities in the world, according to Smarter Travel. No matter what, I’ll always return to the most romantic place I know — my life at home with Chris.