For the first time in my adult life, I won’t have a live Christmas tree this year.

Don’t feel sorry for me yet. When you read this, I will be in Paris, roaming the streets with my mouth agape like a baby bird’s, blinking behind bifocals at the sights.

All of my life I’ve wanted to see France at Christmas, and this is the year.

I will be staying with three other women in an apartment in the Marais—the French word for “swamp,” which the area long ago was. On the Internet you can take a virtual tour of the apartment, roaming from room to room in cyberspace. I’v...

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