“This is the Pont d’Alma.”

And I’m Marie Antoinette.

“It’s the Pont Alexandre III,” I said, losing all hope. We walk right past the Champs Elysées, our alleged destination.

“My friend Sarah’s apartment is around this corner,” I mention to my husband. He thinks this can’t be true.

A few blocks later, I point out the apartment of someone I worked for.

“It’s the place François I,” chides my husband.

“Well, it has to be somewhere,“ I say.

Perhaps I am deluded, I think. Perhaps they really know Paris much better than I do.