You know that feeling, when the plane is about to land and the nose pulls up, and your gut starts doing summersaults? I love that feeling. It is anticipation, fear and adventure all rolling around in your stomach. I pressed my face to the small oval windows of a city-hopper jet, watching famous Parisian landmarks unfold like a map below me. I could faintly see the Eiffel Tower, a sharp obelisk that pierces the sky, wrapped in wisps of fog and the Seine as it meandered its way through the city. My four friends were also staring eagerly out the windows, and that itself was a welcome change from travelling with my parents, who have the remarkable ability of being able to sleep through landing. The seat-belt sign pinged on, the crew hurried to their seats, the plane landed. We were in Paris, the first destination in our 22 day inter-rail tour around Europe.

A couple of days later, after seeing the Eiffel tower from above, I sat right beneath it. In 2007, France's most famous monument was voted the most disappointing landmark in the world. When it's daylight, this might well be true. The tower scribbles on the sky like a sharp pen nib of burnt, mangled iron. When the sun is out, it's a thoroughly underwhelming experience. But at night, the nib transforms into a beacon of fun and vibrancy. It was Friday and it seemed like all of  Paris was in the moonlit shadow of the Eiffel. Markets sprung up, street performers entertained with their songs and small illuminated, battery-operated helicopters were being launched into the sky by smiling children. Every so often the tower lit up with sparkles, reminding everyone that it's still there, one of the most famous landmarks in the world.

On our last night in Paris I met with my friends in Montmartre, the northern quartier of Paris. We strode up the hills past quintessentially Parisian cafes and restaurants. That is the one thing you won't have to worry about when you're in France: food. Baguettes, cheese and tomatoes are in plentiful supply, and the boulangeries peppered around the city all provide delicious croissants and crepes for the odd cheap snack. Eventually we reached the Basilique du Sacre Coeur, the Church of the Sacred Heart, dating back to the 1800s. It's a magnificent piece of architecture. The four domes, iced with white stone, contrasted beautifully with the saffron sky, and you would not be blamed for mistaking it as a mosque. The church is blessed with panoramic views across the city. The Basilique was about to close for the day, so we hurried in with the final group of tourists.

The interior was stunning. The stained glass windows dam the tide of light as ultramarine blues and molten reds stream into the gigantic hall. The altar at the far end illuminates the entire church with its blinding white light. I was surrounded by a sea of bowed heads, staring intently at the stone floor, synchronised in their humility. I looked at those people and remembered my state the night before my exam results. I spent hours praying in the dark, staring into the floor as worst-case scenarios bullied my mind. I heard footsteps out in the hall and my sister opened the door, an obsidian silhouette against the bright doorway. She saw me, probably looking like a rabbit caught in headlights, and told me a quote that I haven't been able to shake since. She said, "Don't tell God how strong your storm is, tell the storm how strong your God is". That night I prayed with reckless abandon, asking for my heart's desires with the least semblance of pragmatism. For the first time in years, I prayed like I did when I was a child.

Before we left, I lifted my eyes to the ceiling in a quick prayer and walked outside as the sky darkened and soft summer rain began to fall from the swollen Parisian clouds.

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