That’s right. As the title of this post(card) hints at, we elected to check out the church that sits atop the highest hill in Paris, as well as the area surrounding it, which is known as Montmartre (“Mountain of the Martyr”). The Basilica of the Sacred Heart is considered a “minor basilica” — whatever that means — but try telling that to all of the people that journey there annually, making it one of the city’s most popular tourist destinations. By some counts, it is second only to the Eiffel Tower, though I’m sure the Louvre and other sites would like a word on that subject.

It may have been Sunday morning, but we had no plans to take it easy. In fact, we instead made our way downtown, walking fast, faces pass(ing) — we were museum-bound. Staring blankly ahead, just making our way, making any way, through the crowd …to get to Musee d’Orsay, another one of Paris’ fine art institutions.

Our third day in France was extremely top heavy, which is to say our two big to-do’s were in the morning and early afternoon. We’re talking about some heavy hitters here, too, as you may have deduced from the title of this post(card). Knowing what lie ahead, it was important to get the day started on the right foot.

Attending a music festival in another state was nothing new, but there was going to be an added element to this rodeo. We were going to tackle Boston Calling — a three-day musical extravaganza with a lineup comprised of the likes of Fall Out Boy, All Time Low, Cage the Elephant, and Avril Lavigne — in a fashion that would likely make even the most reckless gambler cringe: two old heads flying out to the East Coast and pulling an all-nighter as if we were teenagers again.

After giving ourselves time to settle in on Thursday, Friday came in like a lion, and not necessarily the cute and cuddly kind. While you process that visual, allow me to paint another one: the two of us, my traveling companion and me, walking through the streets of Paris before the sun had even risen, racing across town to meet our tour bus.

It was a random Sunday in July when my traveling companion and I decided to write down a number of countries we might want to visit in the next year or so on little scraps of paper. We proceeded to toss said scraps of paper, maybe a couple dozen, into a Red Wings beanie. We then shook them all up and fished out three just to see what we’d get. We told ourselves beforehand that none of this was binding, but then gave each other simultaneous side-eye glances after saying so, as if to indicate that maybe we kinda wanted it to be, that perhaps maybe it was.