A Parisian Christmas: A Father-Daughter Trip I’ll Never Forget

Jennie Vandegrift
Jun 15
3 min read

There are certain trips that leave a permanent imprint on your heart, and my Christmas in Paris with my dad was one of them. It wasn’t planned months in advance or mapped out in detail—in fact, it came together incredibly last-minute. I booked my flights just a couple of weeks ahead to tag along on the tail end of a business trip he had in the city. No plans, no pressure—just the promise of a few days together, father and daughter, exploring a magical new place.

I was in my twenties—at that perfect age when you’re just grown-up enough to appreciate the magic of a destination and the significance of who you’re experiencing it with, yet still young enough to let the whimsy sweep you away completely. We shared time, laughter, and a curiosity to soak in the City of Light side by side. And honestly, that was more than enough.

Of course, we saw the icons. The Eiffel Tower, regal and glowing. The Arc de Triomphe standing proud. We wandered through the Louvre, pausing to see the famed Mona Lisa, explored the intricate façade of Notre Dame, and climbed to the Sacré-Cœur where the city stretched endlessly beneath us. One of my favorite memories lives there—after the climb, we picked up some cheese and snacks from a street vendor, found a little garden nearby, and had a spontaneous picnic on a park bench. It was quiet, peaceful, and somehow so perfectly Parisian. I remember thinking how lucky I was to be right there, in that moment, with my dad.

One funny little detail still makes me smile: Paris in winter is a sea of neutrals. Black coats, grey scarves, deep navy and taupe everywhere you look. And somehow, without even planning it, my dad and I had both packed our brightest yellow jackets. We stood out like sunflowers in the snow—and I kind of loved it. We laughed about it, but there was something magical about it too—like we were carrying our own little ray of light through the city. And the pictures? Pretty incredible—pops of color against grey skies and a sea of classic Parisian style.

The Christmas markets were another highlight. Wandering through twinkling wooden stalls, we explored handmade ornaments, festive treats, and cozy little gifts—of course snagging some of our favorites to bring back for the family, wrapped and tucked under the tree. The city was alive with warmth and wonder. At night, Paris shimmered under the glow of holiday lights, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the background like a giant Christmas ornament, casting a glow that made everything feel just a little more magical.

I don’t remember every museum we walked through or every café we stopped at. But I remember the feeling of being there—together. I remember the conversations, the quiet companionship, the joy of sharing new experiences with someone who’s known me forever. There was an unspoken understanding between us that this kind of trip—just the two of us—might not happen again. It was truly once in a lifetime. I knew that before long, I’d meet my person, start a family of my own, and have new adventures. But this was a moment suspended in time, when my dad was still my whole world.

And that’s the thing about travel. It’s not always about the sights or the food or even the destination itself. Sometimes, it’s about pressing pause on the rest of your life long enough to be fully present with someone. That trip to Paris wasn’t just a holiday getaway—it was a gift. A reminder of how meaningful it is to make space for each other, even for just a few days. And while I may not remember every detail, I’ll always remember how it felt to experience that kind of joy, connection, and love—with my dad.

Years later, I returned to Paris with my husband at the start of our honeymoon through Europe—so excited to share those same magical places with him. And don’t get me wrong, it was magical, in a completely different way. We were celebrating new love, full of hope and excitement for the beautiful life ahead of us. But something about that trip just felt different. Like the city itself—those gardens, those streets, the glow of the Eiffel Tower—were etched in time with my dad. A memory sealed in its own perfect corner of my heart.

Moral of the story? Sure, when you travel, it feels important to hit every landmark, every attraction—because how could you possibly miss them? But when you look back in 15 or 20 years, it’s not the monuments you’ll hold close. It’s the people. The little moments. The memories you created together.

And if you ever get the chance to travel solo with a parent as an adult—take it. I promise, you won’t regret it.

Paris will always belong to us—my dad and me.