For the longest time ever, the romantic notions tied to Paris and the Eiffel Tower have always appealed to me. Those Mills & Boon books I read as a teenager cemented in my mind that falling in love, being romantic, going for long walks, candlelit dinners with clunking of Champagne only ever happens in France, and especially Paris.
The journey began with a quick detour in United Kingdom, a 21st birthday party attended with full jet-lag and some ski gear shopping thrown in.
Because of the heavy partying the night before, the shopping was a bit of a chore. Yes, I know. Even I gasped at myself.
An early morning trek to Gatwick airport was uneventful. The hired car was returned without ceremony and way was made towards the terminal. A quick self-check in, a panini breakfast and a quick stroll around the shops later, we headed towards the designated departure gate.
Taking off from Gatwick, I could barely see much of what was going on due to the heavy fog but a few thousand feet above in the air and it seemed like I was on the way to Mombasa because of the blue skies and sun.
The French Alps are stunning, no doubt, and I was most certainly in awe of the white mountainous region. I probably thought of every cliched word to describe the breathtaking view, which, by the way, the photographs do no justice to.