The Eiffel Tower soars to the sky, lattice and lace and much lighter than anything that enormous has any right to be. Every hour on the hour hundreds of lights as bright as flashbulbs go off across the girders of the frame work making it dazzle like it's giving off sparks.
Down below we watch in awe, until the guys hawking cheap-ass trinkets (plastic Eiffel Towers that change colors, key chains with names like "Kaatie" or "Lazaa).
Fortunately, my time in New York has taught me how to deal with the random street hustler: "No thanks," I say, my voice stern.
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