Paris, visited for the first time, is a wondrous romantic blur. Churches, spires, squares, fountains, avenues, bridges, all fly past in a premeditated itinerary while quietly flows the River Seine, snaking its way through the fabled, historic city. The second time round, I find myself pausing for breath. Except that now, I am forced to keep pace with my adrenalin-driven offspring. On the evening of our arrival in the super slick, super smooth TGV (train à grande vitesse) from the southern city of Marseille, we check in quickly into our luxury abode at the mythical Place de la Concorde and let two Paris veterans lead us efficiently through the underground Metro till we ascend the steps at Trocadéro. A fast trot down the street, a sharp left turn at the Musée de l'Homme and there it is - the Eiffel Tower, bathed in its golden after-dusk glow. As the hour approaches, I watch my daughters' faces. The lights blink furiously and the tower appears in dance mode. Tourist cameras flash, almost competing with the ten-minute sparkle, as a collective gasp fills the square. Records claim that when the tower was inaugurated in 1889 and the lifts were not yet in operation, 87,453 people entered the structure in the first fortnight and those suffering from vertigo climbed the spiral staircase, blindfolded. Such was (and is) the magnetism of seven million kilos of iron! I had earlier viewed the 1000-foot dizzying tower from many directions and in varying light, but Gustave Eiffel's architectural feat looks best in its evening dazzle and my daughters have to agree, when they see it later by day, undressed in its brown metal suit.

Hurrying past necking couples and racing down wide steps to board the Bateaux Parisiens' glass-topped boat at Port de la Bourdonnais across the street from the tower, I stop for a gulp of air. Isn't this supposed to be a leisure trip? To my daughters' consternation, I begin to amble and to their relief, the craft does not leave without us. In a coincidence of sorts, we are seated at the very same table where I had partaken of a feast before and though the menu has changed, it is as expansive, with a delectable selection of starters, main courses, cheese platters, desserts and wines. The violinist on board lulls us into a soporific silence and taking slow sips of a fine Bordeaux, we watch the monuments of Paris cruise by...

If I am studying the floors of Louvre's Grand Gallery instead of the Italian masterpieces on the walls, I have to thank author, Dan Brown! Parquet, did he say? As for the Mona Lisa secured behind a pane of Plexiglas, I had peered at it the last time through milling crowds and she still does not impress me. But on this visit, propelled by avid fans of The Da Vinci Code, I try to look past the obvious in Madonna of the Rocks, stop for a few minutes by the Winged Victory and on the ground floor, as my two teens gape at the famed, armless Venus de Milo, I wander along towards my old favourite - Canova's aching rendering of Psyche and Cupid. All is not déjà vu though, in this rediscovery of sorts of the most famous art museum in the world. Instead of entering through the disconcerting transparent pyramid - erstwhile President Mitterrand's pride and joy - as do most first-time Louvre-goers, we slip in from a lesser known side entrance, to find ourselves, within minutes, inside the cool interiors of the 800-year-old palace of yore. This, courtesy my daughters' commendable sense of direction, ably honed by a museum aficionado, who thought we were imbeciles if we actually opted to stand in queues anywhere!

Then, we make our way from the sublime to the risqué. The neon-lit Lido on the legendary Champs Elysées, is flashing its latest offering, Bonheur, a 90-minute sequinned spectacle on a woman's quest for happiness. Coats and caps 'cloaked' in, half a bottle of champagne down, blissfully high on gourmet bites masterminded by chef, Philippe Lacroix's inventive flourishes, we sit back with our genial host, Claude Micallef. In an arena, dominated by Japanese tourists, we watch one of the world's most lavishly undressed revues, whose costumes alone cost three million Euros! The show, in its 60th year, is an eye-popping mélange of bejewelled, topless dancers, rhinestone-studded ensembles, a small jet plane that flies over the audience, a revolving Hindu temple whose statuesque apsaras come to life and a horse that does the foxtrot. Post the flamboyant finale - all coloured plumes and blinding crystal - we step out into the windswept street, feeling a little glassy-eyed ourselves....

Freshly roasted chestnuts in one hand, city maps in the other and water bottles bulging out of our too-small bags, I (having been there, done that) am unwittingly in charge, whizzing the kids through the sights - the sumptuous Opera House, gleaming in the early morning light, the white-domed, hilltop Sacré Coeur, the artists' village of Montmartre, (where my eldest has vowed to return to for a portrait when she's slimmer), the Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame, the chic, bohemian neighbourhood of Saint-Germain des Prés and the final stop for the day, the Musée d'Orsay. More than its extensive collection of Impressionist art, I am bowled over by the uniqueness of the building - a former railway station, inaugurated for the World Fair in July 1900.

On our last night in Paris, we succumb to the hedonistic pleasures of bingeing and boozing, albeit on select gourmet cuisine and smooth white wine. Le Bristol's fine dining restaurant beckons and we cannot resist. The menu may have been tweaked since my last visit, but the chefs still do themselves proud. The appetizers - macaroni, stuffed with black truffle, artichoke and foie gras and the delicately flavoured morel mushrooms in flaky pastry - are followed by a grilled bass smothered with oyster tartar and Challandais duck, spiced up with nougat and sautéed pineapple. Halfway through a divine hot soufflé spiked with vintage Grand Marnier, arrives the chef's surprise, an orange-kiwi sorbet letting out puffs of 'steam' from its bed of dry ice. Walking us back to the hotel, our accompanying Parisian friends insist we peek into the Buddha Bar on the way, the cavernous nightclub famed for its gigantic Buddha statue and trance music. It's just as I remember it - dim, smoky, noisy - where my two girls immediately begin to feel at home.

Dozing in my Air France seat the next morning, I drowsily contemplate missed opportunities - ascending the top of the Arc de Triomphe, to see 12 streets of Paris meet like a star; visiting the inside of the Opera House; doing tableware shopping on Rue de Rivoli; gorging on pastrami sandwiches in the heart of the Marais…. But give me another year, and I'll feed those experiences into my memory too!