They're taking the Hobbits to Gare du Nord

Recently I've had the pleasure of going abroad for a week. A three hour train ride took me and my better half to a metropolis not only rich in history, astounding monuments and great food, but sadly also in overcrowded subways smelling of urine, dubbed television shows (I now understand why most of them lack a proper understanding of the English language) , and worst of all, those women who wave their hand right in front of your face and who after probably thousands of rejections still do not understand that nobody wants to sign their bloody petition. I am ofcourse talking about the city of love, Paris.

Bad photoshop of actual events

With great pleasure I strolled down the Champs Elysees, witnessed the grandeur of the Notre Dame and bought some great new records at Galerie Lafayette. After several days had passed, I was however to be faced with the inevitable. Whilst slowly traversing down the parisienne walkways, I could not help but feel intimidated by my nemesis arrogantly towering above the rest of the city, bearing witness to my every footstep like the eye of Sauron. With each step taken towards the iron giant, I came closer to realizing that this was really going to happen. A standoff between the Eiffel Tower and me. Now here's a fun fact: I am afraid of heights.

As with most things in life, there is a certain irony to this. I am six feet and three inches tall. If I was any taller, I would probably be afraid to look down at the floor as well. Here is another thing that has struck me as peculiar. Why are the most interesting things in a country almost always abnormally high? The Empire State Building, the Burj Dubai and the London Eye (thank God I went there last year instead of this year) are all immense physical structures, and I prefer not to go anywhere near them, let alone experience their bedazzling heights. Screw New York, next year we're going to Legoland.

There are more than threehundred steps on the staircase leading to the first floor. The first few steps were easy, but it was gradually getting harder. I told myself not to look down, but my subconscious knew better, resulting in a severe tickling of the belly, and breathing not unlike that of Darth Vader. With my sweaty hands I firmly clasped both the railing and, well, my girlfriends hand. After what seemed like infinity, but in all likelihood was more along the lines of five minutes, we arrived at the first floor. Proudly I strutted around and rejoiced in taking in the spectacular view of the Trocadero amongst others. Most importantly, I did not break down. I did not lie on the floor in fetal position. I did not foam at the mouth. One thing remains true however. One does not simply walk into the Eiffel Tower.