Why panty lines? I pondered this question as we strolled, hand in hand, past the art galleries and bookstalls that line the Seine and wandered over the Pont-Neuf toward the Marais. Why didn't they go natural or wear thongs?

Just that morning, I had seen a giant advertisement for thongs on the glass wall of a bus stop. The entire space of the ad was taken up by a model's larger-than-life, cunningly formed buttocks. She was in the delicate process of sliding on a white lace G-string. A schoolboy, jacket flapping, ran past me and slam-dunked his pastry wrapper into a garbage can, strategically placed below the exquisite derrihre. "Deux points!" he shouted to his friends, never even glancing at the ad.

We began to circumnavigate the Ile de la Citi via a sun-splotched cobblestone street that edged along the Seine and ended at tourist central: Notre Dame. A gaggle of American women in the plaza clustered around a van selling souvenirs and soda. I knew they were American because of their white, marshmallow-shaped gym shoes, their tailored yet ill-fitting clothing. They were the picture of practicality, with proper straps and cases for their cameras, overstuffed fanny packs and light windbreakers. I was reminded of Pilgrims.

We crossed over to the Ile St. Louis and saw a woman carrying a worried-looking Pomeranian. Her dark hair was bobbed, her face artfully arranged and she wore a chic, pinstriped men's-style suit, coat and heels. She was an older Louise Brooks, a woman, as they say, of a certain age. Early 40s? Late 40s? It didn't matter. She was fascinating, and as she bent down to place her petit chien on the stones, her suit coat parted slightly and I saw the outline of a bare breast. She stood up and lit a cigarette; then, cooing to her furry companion, continued down the street.

I was enchanted. What kind of life did she have? The possibilities seemed endless.

"She was pretty, wasn't she?" I asked.

"Yeah," my husband answered.

He said it appreciatively. Maybe too appreciatively, I thought, chewing on an overstuffed falafel sandwich. We were in the Marais now, in a bustling Israeli restaurant with American diner decor. The place was hopping, the falafel delicious. Crunchy. Not greasy. Spicy. Splashed over the walls were photos of actors and fashion models, each enjoying falafel. One of them -- I think it was Amber Valleta -- was caught mid-bite by the photographer. She still looked ravishing.

My husband reached over and wiped my chin, catching a dribble of tahini, as a gamin with wide brown eyes and a taut, pierced belly button dropped off our check. She could have looked boyish, with her lean, athletic figure, but the purple ribbon that tied back her shoulder-length brown curls was anything but. That was the thing all Parisiennes seemed to have in common: They embraced femininity. She moved assuredly from table to table, clearing glasses, taking orders, making change. She couldn't have been older than 19. I was never that comfortable in my body at 19. I'm not that comfortable in my body now.

We spent the rest of the day losing ourselves in a maze of streets, and eventually wound up in the Bastille district. By nightfall the Rue de Lappe -- earlier a hushed alleyway -- had sprung to life. The disco was pumping, dishes clattering, the chairs of the sidewalk cafes beginning to fill up. I felt grimy, and was relieved when we agreed to go back to our room. I didn't feel like being out, particularly among the hip young things of the Bastille.

We went in search of a decent bottle of red wine and a hunk of Camembert. We found them, along with last-minute grapes, for $7 at a small grocery store. Now all we needed was a baguette, but baguettes are hard to come by in France after 4 p.m. We finally found one, atop a pile of newspapers in the all-night corner store across from our hotel in St-Germain-des-Pres.

By 10 p.m., we were sitting cross-legged on our tiny balcony, our little feast spread between us. We were eye-level with the rooftops of Paris. Down below, the store owner's daughter skipped beneath the street lamp. Across the street, an elderly woman picked her way around her rooftop garden, carefully watering her roses and peonies. The night was quiet. My head was spinning a little from the wine when my husband got up and climbed back through the window to get something inside.

He returned with a diamond ring, an antique. It was heavy. Platinum. The setting was square, art deco in design -- very, very feminine. I hated to cry, but what else do you do when you realize that you are the luckiest girl in the world? Here we were, getting engaged, five years after we eloped. Ten years after we moved in together. And 11 years after we met. It was perfect.

The next morning, as we strolled past a shaded boules court in the Luxembourg Gardens, a group of teenage girls stopped us and asked me a question in rapid-fire French. I couldn't believe it; they actually mistook me for a Parisienne. I had them fooled until I opened my mouth and butchered their language.

Later we napped on our sun-drenched bed. I woke first and lay there, still wondering about French women. It wasn't simply beauty. The world was full of lookers. It couldn't be physique. You could see more sculpted bodies on any given day in Los Angeles. And it wasn't their style, although I found the Parisian combination of the conservative and the sexy irresistible. It was the way they wore their clothes. Confidently, but not brazenly. Comfortably. These women were nonchalant. They were themselves.

My partner was still sleeping. I decided to surprise him with his favorite French food: tarte au citron. And flowers. I pulled on a dress and flats and headed out the door, grabbing a sweater just in case. I didn't need it. Summer had officially arrived on the Rue Vavin. I found a patisserie and bought a small, personal-sized tarte. The rotund baker, his blue eyes twinkling, handed it to me with a flourish.

Back on the street, I suddenly realized that this was my first time alone in Paris. What would life be like if we lived here? I fantasized about living in a flat near the Place de la Bastille, really learning the language.

I arrived at a bustling intersection of cafes. I passed a table of men wearing dark sunglasses and felt their eyes on me. Why were they staring? Was my dress too short? I tugged at it. Another cafe. More stares. I pulled on my sweater and quickened my pace. The sun was beating down; I was beginning to sweat. I passed a table of young girls. They were staring, too. That made me feel better, and I laughed out loud when I realized what a hypocrite I was: I stared -- stared blatantly -- every time I sat at a cafe. I even pointed out paquet-cadeau! I glanced back at the cafes. They were set up like every French cafe I had ever seen -- chairs side by side, facing out to the street, so every patron could get a clear view of the parade. I was just part of the parade. But I preferred to be an observer.

At last -- a flower stand. I bought two dozen red roses. No one paid any attention to me. Good. I headed back the way I came. There were the cafes to pass again, and I hurried by, eyes on the ground. I was almost home, back to the sunny room with the yellow flowered wallpaper. And my favorite paquet-cadeau.

I ducked into a small market for a bottle of water. It was dark and cool inside.

"Cinq francs," said the cashier. I handed him the money. He was young, 20 or so, dark and good-looking. I took the water and turned to leave.

"Vous etes trhs belle, mademoiselle."

I looked at him. He was putting the money in the register.

"Excusez-moi?"

He switched to perfect English, but never looked up. "You are very beautiful, miss."

I felt my face flush. I didn't know what to say.

"Merci."

He nodded. I scurried out and thought how bizarre. Since I was 13 years old, I, like every other woman I knew, had been the recipient of whistles, crude propositions, weird grunts, clicks and kissy sounds from total strangers. I had never felt complimented.

I sailed along the street. I didn't care who was looking, who wasn't looking. I felt great, I realized. I felt complimented. I felt French.