The Travel Enthusiast

A family journey from Paris to the Alps—through mulled wine, medieval villages, exhausted kids, five trains, and one broken toe.

I write this from my couch in sunny Florida, nursing a broken pinky toe—my latest and apparently inevitable travel souvenir. This marks the third time I’ve managed to injure myself on a trip, which at this point feels less like bad luck and more like a personality trait (apologies to my husband Jake who graciously bears with me). But this story isn’t about the fall – or my cracked toe.

It’s about having a dream, and making it happen.

December 2025 broke me. Pun absolutely intended. Physically, yes—but more than that, it stretched me in the ways that matter. It reminded me that resilience isn’t built in comfort. It’s learned through missed trains, exhausted kids, heavy luggage, hard conversations, and choosing to keep going when it would be easier to stop. The willingness to accept your daily fate as you blunder your way through places that are uncharted to you.

Every trip, if you let it, will teach you something.

This one taught us a lot.

Editor’s note: This is a long-form personal essay (about a 10-20 minute read.) Grab a coffee, settle in—or feel free to skip ahead below.

Catching Flights and (Lots of) Feelings

Our journey started the way most big trips do: optimistically and slightly overconfident. We left Fort Lauderdale in the early afternoon, boarding the Tri-Rail with two kids, my parents, Jake, and what felt like our entire household packed into eight suitcases. The plan was simple: Miami International Airport, an 8:00 p.m. Air France flight, and a direct shot to Paris (Famous last thoughts.)

Despite all the news about a chaotic holiday travel, TSA was shockingly painless. So naturally, we celebrated early. Martinis were ordered. Dinner followed. And then—because apparently I hadn’t learned enough lessons yet—two glasses of Chardonnay. Which absolutely did not need to happen.

The boys were buzzing with excitement, dragging their Minecraft suitcases through the terminal like tiny, pixelated sherpas. Jake forgot his carry-on. My mom had it. We laughed. We rushed. We made the flight.

Nine hours later, Paris arrived.

And so did the hangover.

Paris: Baptism by Public Transit

We landed late morning, groggy but determined, and headed out toward our Airbnb on Rue Coquillière, navigating the RER like confident Europeans. Except… not really. I got us off one stop too early. Then we got back on. Then we got off again. Then, in a moment that will forever live rent-free in my mind, Jake got left behind on the train with multiple pieces of luggage. The rest of us stood frozen on the platform trying to process how we had managed to lose a fully grown adult in under an hour upon arrival.

There were bags everywhere. Kids everywhere. Internal panic masked by forced calm. Eventually, Jake found his way back to us and, we surrendered to an Uber. I got violently carsick and had to pull over to release myself (luckily right in front of our Airbnb.) Not chic. Not Parisian. Just deeply humbling.

We arrived too early for our Airbnb, but luck was on our side. The neighborhood was alive with cafés, so we wandered next door and found ourselves eating burgers, café au lait, and a surprisingly excellent take on beef bourguignon. The room still wasn’t ready, and I was running on fumes, but once we finally got in, I managed a short nap—thirty minutes of silence that felt sacred.

No one really talks about the parenting struggles on trips like this. The refusal to nap. The overstimulation. The fact that kids don’t care that you crossed an ocean. But somehow, we pushed through.

Dinner that night at Postiche Bistro, was exactly what you’d hope a first dinner in Paris would be. A perfectly Parisian tiny bistro. A server who felt like he’d stepped straight out of central casting for “quintessential Parisian waiter,” wearing highwater pants and striped shirt. The food was a 10 out of 10—grilled octopus, tuna tartare, pumpkin soup. Divine.

And then, a small miracle: both boys fell asleep at the table.

Karmic relief.

Jake stayed back with them afterward, but my parents and I had other plans. We walked toward the Jardin du Tuileries and stumbled into our first Christmas market. The smell of raclette, curry, fresh bread, and mulled wine filled the air. The market was buzzing—people from everywhere, all chasing the same thing: the magic of Paris at Christmas.

I had lived it once before, back in 2014, when a younger, wildly ambitious version of me and Jake backpacked through 11 cities in 17 days. That trip lit the spark that became my love affair with travel. Experiencing Christmas in Paris again—this time with my parents beside me and my kids sleeping nearby—felt surreal.

Different. A bit harder, but just as magical.

Versailles, Macarons, and Letting Go of Expectations

We woke up refreshed and ready to time travel back to the age of Marie Antoinette. But first: breakfast. Across the street at Le Baltard, a perfectly appointed French brasserie with mahogany walls, red accents, and that quintessential Parisian window seating. Omelets. Flaky croissants. Fresh orange juice. And a chocolat chaud even the boys couldn’t get enough of.

Once we were sufficiently fed and had admired the view of our pre-war Airbnb building and the dome at the Bourse de Commerce, we made our way to Versailles.

The moment you see those gold gates, you’re transported. You’re instantly reminded that this was a different world—horse-drawn carriages, aristocrats in silk, power concentrated in a way that feels almost fictional now.

We had purchased tickets ahead of time on Get Your Guide, so we walked right in. Hours passed as we moved through history and art and whispered attempts to keep the kids engaged. Somewhere along the way, we introduced them to Ladurée macarons and that was it, from that moment on, they were hooked. One or two in every city became a non-negotiable.

The gardens weren’t decorated for Christmas like I had imagined, and the wind was brutal, but the boys ran free. They burned energy. We soaked in the vastness. And I quietly reminded myself (again) that expectations are often the enemy of joy.

Later, hunger struck. We spotted a McDonald’s across from the train station and gave the boys a taste of home – unaware that this would become a recurring theme. Let me be clear: McDonald’s in France is an experience. Real plates. A full McCafé bar. Fresh desserts. And a crispy chicken sandwich that American McDonald’s could absolutely never (!!!).

That evening, we wandered near Notre-Dame, still radiant despite its scars. Inside, the boys witnessed a moment involving a woman overwhelmed and screaming with emotion—something none of us could fully explain. Holy Spirit? The opposite? A full-body spiritual release? The mystery lives on, and honestly, I kind of love that we’ll never really know.

We ended the night with dinner at Ostra Paris, an incredible oyster and seafood restaurant tucked into the city. We had a cozy little nook to ourselves with views of one of Paris’s many cathedrals, and finally—finally—an up-close experience with the Eiffel Tower. We sat along the Seine riverfront, sipping a bottle of Chardonnay as the tower glittered in all its glory, a light sprinkle of rain falling around us.

And in that moment—yes. This is why we do all of this. Even in the rain. Especially in the rain. I was loving every second of it—the imperfect magic, the quiet and chaos, the realization that these are the moments you remember long after the logistics fade.

Disneyland Paris: The Princess, the Reality Check, and the Small Win

As many of my friends know, I am a Disney princess at heart. A dream unfulfilled. (At one point I auditioned and didn’t make it past the first round—but I did play Elsa from Frozen at a colleague’s kid’s birthday party once, which reminded me that the universe has a funny way of giving you small moments of joy when you least expect them.)

That said, visiting every Disney theme park in the world has long lived on my bucket list. I’ve been to Disney World more times than I can count, but Disneyland Paris felt different. It felt aspirational. So while the boys were excited, I was absolutely giddy walking up to the security gates—where we were promptly told to throw away our selfie sticks. (Naturally, I made Jake stash ours in the bushes outside. And yes, miraculously, they were still there when we left. A true Disney miracle.)

We had two parks and one day, which meant we had to be strategic. We started in Walt Disney Studios Park—the Hollywood-style park—and right out of the gate were humbled by a brutal 90-minute wait for our first ride: Spider-Man. That line alone forced a necessary mindset shift. This wasn’t going to be a “see everything” day. This was going to be a “pick your battles and release the rest” kind of day.

And so I did.

I missed a lot of things I wanted to see in Disneyland Park, but we walked through every land, clocked at least 20,000 steps, and made it work. I took full advantage where I could—jumping on three of the thrill rides (thankfully, Jake can’t stomach too many, which made me the default single rider). I became the fun parent on the kiddie rides and the solo daredevil when the opportunity presented itself. Balance at it’s finest.

But my favorite moment of the day came as a complete surprise.

I had no idea that during Christmas, there’s a small Christmas market tucked in front of It’s a Small World. And there it was—like a gift placed directly in my path—hot wine and macarons. Exactly when I needed them most. Another little nod from the universe, reminding me that even in exhaustion, there can be magic.

Right after that small but mighty win, we caught the Christmas parade. Music, lights, joy—it felt like the perfect closing chapter to an exhausting, yet soul-filling day.

We slept on the RER ride back to Les Halles, physically spent and mentally buzzing, reminiscing on the madness and magic we had just lived through. The kids loved it. Truly. But for me? It was a dream come true.

Alsace Arrival: Trains, Trust, and the Kindest People on Earth

The morning after Disneyland—still tired, still buzzing, still running on adrenaline—we boarded our 10:00 a.m. train headed east toward Alsace. Or, at least, that was the plan.

The train was delayed by about an hour (because of course it was), and what followed can only be described as a full logistics exercise in patience. We eventually arrived in Strasbourg, then immediately had to pivot to another train to Sélestat. At that point, we were surviving purely on train sandwiches and vibes. Everyone was hungry. Everyone was tired. Everyone was just hoping the next stop would be the right stop.

Somehow, we made it to Ribeauvillé. With minimal emotional breakdowns.

We arrived on Sunday, December 7th, which turned out to be one of only two weekends in the entire month when Ribeauvillé hosts its Christmas markets (the first weekend being December 6–7, and the second falling later in the month). Meaning: this wasn’t just a market day. This was the day.

The town was packed. And I mean packed in the most surreal way possible—because Ribeauvillé isn’t just charming, it’s tiny. A true medieval town. Narrow streets. Timber-framed houses. Cobblestones that absolutely do not care about your rolling luggage. And there we were, dragging suitcases through the middle of it all while the town was actively transformed into what can only be described as a full-blown Renaissance festival.

The town wasn’t just hosting a Christmas market—it had fully transformed into a living medieval village, complete with Landsknechte guards, troubadours, town criers, and villagers going about their trades as if the last five centuries never happened. There was even a small farm set up inside the town walls. Actual animals. In the middle of a Christmas market. It felt bizarre and magical and completely unhinged in the best way.

We dropped our bags at our Airbnb—right in the heart of Ribeauvillé, and immediately made our first and most important stop: hot wine.

And here’s where one of my favorite moments of the entire trip happened.

My dad didn’t have any cash on him, but the vendor served us anyway. No hesitation. No concern. My dad promised he’d go find an ATM, and the man simply trusted us. So my dad took off running through the town, searching for cash, while we stood there holding our mugs, slightly stunned by the kindness of it all. My dad came back and paid him, but that moment stuck with me. It said everything about the place. The people. The energy. Just good, trusting humans doing life together in a tiny medieval town at Christmas.

After that, we had a much-needed dinner at a nearby German restaurant—hearty, comforting, exactly what we needed after a day fueled by train snacks and adrenaline. Then we went back to the Airbnb to regroup, warm up, and reset.

Later that evening, Jake and I headed back out to explore more of the town while my parents stayed back with my second-born, Logan. The market officially ended at 6:00 p.m., so we rushed to soak in as much as we could between five and closing—even as the rain began to settle in for the night.

What followed can only be described as herding cattle through a medieval village in the dark—slick cobblestones, useless umbrellas, and one very determined child negotiating for macarons (the bargaining chip for him joining us, and something I would later regret). We were just trying to survive the moment. Completely chaotic. Slightly miserable. And somehow still hilarious.

Even in the rain, the town showed up. Festive timber houses glowed, lanterns flickered, and the streets buzzed with people from all over the world—laughing, clinking mugs, music drifting through the cold, wet air. It felt like a pilgrimage of tourists all chasing the same thing: that unmistakable medieval Christmas charm.

And somehow, after everything it took to get there, it felt exactly right.

Two Days in Alsace: Fairytales, Quiet Mornings, and Falling in Love Twice

Our first full day in Alsace, we woke up in Ribeauvillé and had the town almost entirely to ourselves as a family. In the daylight, everything felt softer and more storybook-like—the half-timbered houses, the quiet streets, the vineyards stretching out beyond the town. Ribeauvillé sits beneath the ruins of three medieval castles perched high above it, and seeing them in the morning light made the whole place feel protected by history, like time had slowed down just for us.

It was the kind of morning where you don’t rush. We wandered. We took it in. And I fully leaned into the fairytale of it all.

That afternoon, we boarded the 1:00 p.m. train to Strasbourg, trading small-town charm for something bigger and bolder. Strasbourg was everything I imagined it would be—grand and festive, with Christmas markets spilling into nearly every square. Timber-framed buildings lined wide streets, the city buzzing with people and energy.

We visited Strasbourg Cathedral, which, in my opinion, was the most beautiful cathedral we saw on the entire trip. The Gothic architecture felt sharper and more intricate than Notre-Dame—dramatic in a way that made you stop and stare. Afterward, we grabbed beers and snacks in the square out front while the boys rode a nearby carousel. I treated myself to a savory tart—Gruyère, mushrooms, all the cozy winter flavors—while sipping hot wine as we wandered the walkable city.

The weather was perfect that day. Crisp, but not cold. We stayed into the evening to watch the lights come on and see the massive Christmas tree glowing in the main square. It felt magical in that effortless, no-agenda way—just being present and letting the city do its thing.

That night, we ate dinner at a small Japanese restaurant back in Ribeauvillé—and it was so good we immediately knew we’d be back.

The next morning brought a completely different kind of magic.

Jake and I slipped out early while the rest of the family stayed back, and Ribeauvillé felt like it belonged only to us. Quiet streets. Christmas decorations still up. The town felt paused in time. We wandered toward the outskirts, passing vineyards and taking in views of the surrounding hills, eventually finding ourselves in a small square that instantly reminded me of the opening scene of Beauty and the Beast—the provincial town where Belle sings. A fountain in the center. Christmas décor still lingering. Storybook-perfect.

Later that day, we regrouped with everyone and headed to Colmar. While Strasbourg feels grand and expansive, Colmar is softer and more intimate. Its canals—often called Petite Venise—are smaller and quieter, winding through pastel buildings in a way that feels undeniably charming. Different personalities, same fairytale energy.

That night, we went back to the same Japanese restaurant in Ribeauvillé for dinner—because when something is that good, you don’t question it. You just say yes twice.

To the Mountains We Go: Trains, Transfers, and Moving on Instinct

The next day was our epic travel day to the mountainous winter wonderland of Chamonix. And by epic, I mean at least six hours, five trains, multiple countries, and the kind of journey that tests every ounce of patience, strength, and emotional regulation you thought you had mastered.

Somewhere along the way, we realized we had gotten off at the wrong stop. Not just us—but all eight pieces of luggage, plus the children. We fully unloaded onto the platform before realizing our mistake, and then had to immediately reverse course. What followed was pure adrenaline: throwing luggage back onto the train, hoisting children aboard, scrambling like lunatics as the doors threatened to close. I’m pretty sure the entire platform stopped to watch.

At another point, we boarded the wrong train car and were informed—very confidently—by a man that we were in the wrong seats. Naturally, we questioned him. Naturally, he was right. Which meant we had to remove all of our luggage from the overhead racks and sprint down the entire length of the train to our correct car before it departed. Bags everywhere. Kids trailing. Absolute madness.

Then came the main station transfer. Five minutes. Five whole minutes to make the next train. And that is when Logan decided it was time for a full, no-negotiation meltdown. Refused to walk. Refused to cooperate. Fully shut down crying loud enough for everyone in the station to turn.

So I did what any reasonable person would do.

I picked him up like the Viking queen that I am and carried him through the train station like a football—one arm gripping a child, the other juggling luggage, a book bag, a Minecraft suitcase, and whatever dignity I had left. People were staring. Stopping. Watching. It was a scene. A full spectacle.

But we made it.

Once we finally collapsed into our seats on the last train—the final hour-long stretch—I felt the first real breath of relief all day. We had survived. We were en route. No more transfers. No more running. Just motion.

Eventually, we crossed into Switzerland and arrived in Geneva, where—somehow—we had a few hours to explore. After storing our luggage at the train station, we walked along the river toward the Christmas market. Greeted by epic lake views, we met some very elegant swans (locals, clearly), wandered the market, and stopped for a much needed vin chaud—this one infused with ginger, which was unexpected and absolutely delicious.

By 5:00 p.m., we boarded the bus to Chamonix. As night fell, the mountains began to reveal themselves—just silhouettes at first, enough to hint at what was coming.

We arrived, grabbed dinner at a nearby brewery—charcuterie, pizza, comfort food earned the hard way—and ended the night exactly where we belonged: in the hot tub, steam rising into the cold mountain air, knowing we had survived the chaos and hadn’t even seen the best part yet.

That would come in the morning.

And it would be worth every single train.

Chamonix: When the Mountains Finally Revealed Themselves

We woke up to Chamonix without fully realizing what we had just arrived in. Only once the light hit did it register—the vastness of it all. Our Airbnb sat perfectly in the valley, giving us sweeping, nearly 360-degree views of the surrounding mountain range. One of those moments where you just stand there quietly, coffee in hand, thinking, oh… this is special.

After breakfast, we headed into town to explore, easing into the day. One of our favorite discoveries was Plan B, a spot tucked inside a hotel that quickly became our cold-weather sanctuary. Wine for the adults, and absolute heaven for the kids—mini bowling, a mini-gym play area, and arcade games for my child-like husband to enjoy. It was one of those rare places where everyone wins. The boys loved it so much they talked about it constantly, and we ended up going back a second time during our stay. Highly worth it, especially with kids in winter.

We wandered through the town, soaking in the alpine charm, and hopped on the little tourist train that loops through Chamonix—about 40 minutes, roughly $7 per person, and an easy way to get oriented while learning a bit about the town’s history without freezing in place. Low effort, high reward.

That evening, we gathered back at the house for a fire, and then—an absolute gift—my parents offered to stay with the kids so Jake and I could sneak out for a date night. We ended up at Bistrot Bonatti, where I had what I can confidently say was the best lasagna of my entire life. Full stop. The kind of meal where you don’t talk much because you’re too busy appreciating what’s happening.

It was the perfect end to the day. Quiet. Grounded. Earned.

The next morning, we woke up with one clear mission: see the mountaintop.

Jake took the lead (thankfully), and we made our way to La Flégère, hopping on the cable car that would take us up into the mountains. Almost immediately, we were rewarded with an epic vantage point—the sheer vastness of Mont Blanc and the entire Chamonix valley stretching out below us.

A quick note here: the tickets were shockingly affordable. What wasn’t immediately clear—at least to Jake and my dad—was that this wasn’t just a scenic ride. It was, in fact, a ski station. Meaning: ski lifts. Which required skis. Which we did not have. Slight oversight.

Luckily, once we reached the top, there was a cozy lodge waiting for us. Hot food, snacks, hot dogs for the kids, and a warm place to regroup. We hung out there for a solid hour, watching skiers glide past, soaking in the views, and fully leaning into the fact that we were standing in an actual winter wonderland. Snow underfoot, mountains all around, beers in hand—specifically from Big Mountain Brewing Co., enjoyed straight from the snow.

After heading back down the mountain, we wandered through the surrounding area and made our way back into town for an early dinner. We ended the day at Josephine Restaurant, sipping Chardonnay, noshing on our first and only French onion soup of our trip, and settling into the kind of calm that only comes after a full day of awe. Incredible view and vibes, good food, tired smiles.

It was one of those days that reminds you how small you are—in the best possible way.

When the Mountain Gives… and Then Takes a Little Back

That evening, after what had been a truly beautiful day in the mountains, reality quietly made its entrance. I slipped on the stairs in our Airbnb and hurt my foot—badly. At the time, I didn’t realize it was broken. That discovery would come a week later, back in Miami. But in that moment, I knew something wasn’t right. My foot swelled almost immediately, and the pain was intense.

The next two days shifted course.

I stayed back at the lodge with my youngest son, grounded—literally—inside the cabin. And honestly, if you’re going to break a toe anywhere, a cozy chalet with an epic view of Mont Blanc is about as good as it gets. I iced my foot in actual snow and watched the mountains from the window, reminding myself that there are worse places to be sidelined.

While I (barely) rested, my parents had an epic day to themselves exploring the town, and Jake and Theo set off on their own adventure. I was genuinely sad to miss Theo’s first time skiing, but he did amazing—and knowing that helped soften the sting of not being there.

The following day, we began our slow journey back to Geneva, where we’d catch a morning flight home to Miami. One unexpected “perk” of breaking your foot? Wheelchair assistance and cutting the immigration line. I’ll take the silver linings where I can—but let me be very clear: I do not recommend breaking a foot and then getting on an airplane.

It was miserable. My foot had turned into a painful balloon, and every step felt like a negotiation with gravity. Easily one of the hardest travel days I’ve ever endured. Still, the boys were troopers. They behaved, slept most of the way, and somehow made it easier than it had any right to be. Despite that, my wavering sanity and lingering pain put me on multiple emotional breakdowns during the flight.

I left France bruised, limping, and exhausted—but full. Full of memories. Full of perspective. Full of gratitude for a trip that gave us magic, chaos, lessons, and yes… one broken toe to remember it by.

And somehow, even that felt like part of the story.

What This Trip Taught Us

Travel with kids isn’t about perfection. It’s about trust. Flexibility. Letting go of control while still showing up as the anchor when everyone else needs one.

Adversity makes the joy sharper. Chaos makes the calm sweeter. And sometimes, you have to miss a train—or injure a toe—to remember why you chose this life in the first place.

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