The day finally came. The bags were packed, passports in hand, and the Camp Courageous Travel Group was itching to trade Iowa cornfields for Parisian boulevards.

Day 2 – Bon Voyage, Iowa!

Day 4 – A city tour of a lifetime..

CC travel started the day like anyone lucky enough to wake up in Paris should, with breakfast that reminds you, you’re somewhere special. Flaky croissants, creamy cheeses, rich coffee poured in thick white mugs. A spread made for slowing down and savoring.

Then came the bus, taking us on a tour around the city. As it wound its way through the heart of the city. Past Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower peeking through the skyline, the wide boulevards that seem made for dreaming. Every turn, every stop, another postcard moment. Camper Erin, a sharp-eyed camper, didn’t miss a beat, answering the guide’s questions before she could finish them. Erin knows her stuff.

By mid-afternoon, the metro carried us through the veins of the city, down into the tiled tunnels and back up into the light of the Galeries Lafayette Haussmann. A cathedral of fashion and elegance. Some of us wandered off to hunt for souvenirs or maybe just a good story. The group split naturally, half heading back to the hotel for a breather, the other chasing the golden light toward the Palais Garnier and the Palais-Royal.

Dinner was slower, quieter. One group tucked into a cozy café near the hotel, the others still wandering, soaking in the city like sponges.

It was one of those days where everything flowed, a day you didn’t plan too tightly, and because of that, it was better. We laughed, we ate well, we saw what we came to see, and then a little more.

Tomorrow: Disneyland Paris. A different kind of magic. And yeah, everyone’s ready for it.

Day 5 – Disneyland in France!

Paris. The city of lights. Of love. Of delicious pastries. But today… today was about magic. Not the Parisian kind found in corner cafés or cobblestone alleys, but the loud, sugar-coated, mouse-ear-wearing kind that only Disneyland can deliver. Yes, that Disneyland, but with a French twist.

We took the Metro. Like true Parisians. It rumbled and roared until it spat us out at the gates of the happiest place on earth. Well, at least on this side of the Atlantic. You could feel it. The buzz. The thrill. The moment the crew laid eyes on the towering Disneyland castle, it was as if reality got swallowed whole by a fairytale. Everyone had that wide-eyed, open-mouthed look, the kind of look you get when you’re about to fall in love or fall off a rollercoaster.

Lunch? Oh, lunch was classic theme park fare. Grease, nostalgia, and no apologies. Chicken sandwiches. Sausages. Hot dogs. We feasted at Pinocchio’s Restaurant, where lies are welcome, and ketchup is served without restraint. After filling our bellies and our arteries, we scattered. Each small group is diving into their version of magic. Camper Dusty? He took on Captain Hook like it was personal. There’s something satisfying about watching a camper embrace the pirate life and walk away victorious. Somewhere between a saber fight and a swagger, Dusty became a legend.

The ladies took the haunted route. Phantom Manor. Ghouls, ghosts, and that slow creeping horror that makes you question if the ride’s over or if you’ve just become part of the furniture. Classic. The rest? They spun on carousels, drifted through It’s a Small World, battled in Star Wars: Hyperspace Mountain, and got disoriented on Star Tours. It was chaotic. Beautifully so.

And of course, shopping. Because you don’t go to Disneyland Paris without leaving with something covered in glitter, overpriced, and absolutely necessary in the moment. Then came the grand finale. Fireworks. Bursting into the night sky like the world was celebrating with us. Lights danced across the castle. Music swelled. And for a few minutes, the world was alright.

Tomorrow we trade fantasy for culture shock. Walking the gritty, gorgeous streets of Paris, with the Louvre as our north star. But today… today we lived the dream in mouse ears.

Magic, madness, and a touch of mayo. Welcome to travel with the Camp Courageous crew.

Day 6 – Mona Lisa captivates..

Paris doesn’t hand itself over all at once. You have to walk it. You have to let it unfold beneath your feet, smell the grit and butter in the air, and let the weight of history press into your shoulders like an old friend who never quite learned boundaries.

This morning, we stepped into that rhythm, Camp Courageous style. Backpacks slung, matching t-shirts, and a metro pass in hand. We rode the veins of the city, surfacing near Pont Alexandre III. That bridge, God, that bridge, isn’t just steel and stone. It’s theatre. Overdressed and unapologetic. Gilded angels hanging off lampposts like they’d just stepped out of a dream. The Seine rolled beneath us, lazy and certain.

From there, we made our way to the Place de la Concorde. This place… it doesn’t shout. It whispers. You stand there, and if you know your history, the ground feels different. Heavy. A square that once saw kings fall and blood run, now just casually filled with honking cars and tourists slurping sodas. Paris is funny like that; it never forgets, it just moves on with style.

Eventually, the heat got to us. Our path curved toward the Tuileries Gardens, and we collapsed into chairs like we’d been marching for days, not hours. Ice cream crêpes were the savior of the moment—warm, sweet, and drippy. One camper said it was the best thing they’d ever eaten. And honestly, they might be right. When you’re hungry, surrounded by statues, sunshine, and shade, even the simplest things taste like magic.

Lunch was a café plucked straight from a postcard. We didn’t need reviews or ratings, we needed chairs and cold drinks. We filled up, laughed, argued over who’d seen more pigeons, and then headed somewhere sacred.

The Louvre. It’s easy to be cynical about it, about the Mona Lisa selfies and the echo of a thousand tour guides saying “this way, folks”, but that cynicism fades when you see someone’s eyes go wide at their first brush with something ancient and beautiful. Campers wandered in quiet awe. Not everything made sense to everyone, and that was okay. Art doesn’t ask you to understand it. It asks you to feel something. And we did.

We took the metro back, shoes dusty, feet sore, but spirits light. Some jumped into the pool like it was their first time touching water. Others lounged like Parisian retirees. And then, dinner: split paths, both delicious. Half of us dove into bubbling pizza, gooey calzones, pasta so good it shut everyone up. The others went east, Ramen bowls steaming like little Tokyo alleyways, umami-rich and slurp-worthy. We ended the night with sorbet, passed around between friends. Lips stained, smiles easy, conversations soft.

Tomorrow, we face the Eiffel Tower. The crown jewel. The cliché that still manages to stun you anyway. We’ll go up, we’ll look out, and we’ll breathe in the last of this city before we move on, but today? Today was real. And if Paris gave us anything, it wasn’t just golden statues or world-class art. It was time. Together. With eyes open and hearts just a little fuller.

Day 7 – Eiffel Tower stuns…

There are days that drift by, unnoticed, like leaves in the Seine. Then there are days like this, ones that get carved deep into your memory with the edge of a steak knife. This was that kind of day.

An early wake-up call in a city that never truly sleeps, because it dreams instead. And so did we, one final rendezvous with that icon of iron and ambition: the Eiffel Tower.

At this point, we weren’t just tourists, we were full-blooded, baguette-crunching, metro-navigating Parisians. We rode the metro like locals, nimbly dodging closing doors, leaning into the rhythm of the train, and reading the map like a familiar face. If someone told us we were moving here tomorrow, I don’t think a single soul in our group would protest.

The Eiffel Tower was more than a landmark this morning, it was a rite of passage. We stood beneath its massive legs, craning our necks, the iron lattice stretching up into a soft-blue sky that looked painted by God’s own watercolor brush. We took the elevators up. First to the second floor, a panoramic canvas of the City of Light sprawled beneath us. For those brave enough, the top floor offered a view that made you understand why people fall in love in Paris. Because how could you not?

There was coffee at the tower café, some shopping for kitschy magnets and timeless memories.Lunch came next, just off the tower grounds. French brasseries don’t need to try hard. They simply exist in a state of grace, like jazz in New Orleans or all. We lingered, as you do in Paris, letting the food and the conversation wash over us like the warm afternoon sun. Then back to the metro for our last ride. Thirty-two miles of walking over the week. Thirty-two miles of stories. We’d earned our rest.

Back at the hotel, the pool became a sanctuary. Bags half-packed, swimsuits thrown over chairs, the group exhaled, finally. We knew the finish line was near, and we savored every last second.

But Paris wasn’t done with us yet.

Our farewell dinner? A crown jewel. Montparnasse Tower. Restaurant: Le Ciel de Paris, literally, the Sky of Paris. The elevator shot us up like a rocket into the clouds, and the city greeted us like an old friend from above. You could feel it in your bones: this was something special.Lobster bisque that danced on the tongue, duck foie gras that melted like memory. Main courses that walked the line between elegance and indulgence. Veal, sea fillet, rich pastas spun with care. Dessert was a final kiss: chocolate mousse, lemon meringue, sorbet, each bite a punctuation mark on the week.

And then, as if Paris itself were tipping its hat, the Eiffel Tower shimmered to life in a spectacle of lights right at 9 PM. For many in the group, it was the first time seeing it sparkle. It was like the city knew we were leaving and wanted to give us a proper send-off.

The bus ride home was quiet, full of contented sighs and gentle reflection. Talk of packing, of flights, of home. But also that look, that flicker in the eyes of people who’d tasted something unforgettable.

Tomorrow we’ll be in Iowa again. But tonight, we were in Paris. And Paris, she gave us her best.

Day 8 – Bon Voyage, Paris!

There’s a strange melancholy that settles in on the last day of a journey. The kind that creeps in when the backpacks are zipped shut for the last time and the sun rises not for exploration, but for departure. Today was all about getting back to Iowa, no postcards, no local delicacies, no wandering side streets. Just check-ins and security lines, customs agents with unreadable faces, and that long, slow shuffle through airport purgatory.

Nine hours strapped into a seat on a flight back to Dallas, the engine’s drone a lullaby for the restless campers. Then another hop, Dallas to Cedar Rapids. You watch the world unfold from 30,000 feet, places you’ve touched, stories you’ve added to your own, fading into the clouds below.

This trip was a mosaic of moments. Funny, strange, beautiful. We learned from each other. We laughed in places we’d never been. We felt bone-tired, sunburned, maybe a little fried, but damn, it was worth it.

Because that’s the thing about travel. It’s not the fancy meals or the five-star accommodations. It’s the people you meet, the jokes that don’t make sense outside the group, the chaos of shared experience. That’s the good stuff. That’s the marrow. And if you’re lucky, it stays with you long after your passport’s been stamped and the bags have been unpacked.

Until the next one.