In Love With The City Of Lights

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Or, how Paris stole my heart when I didn't see it comin'.

Oh, Paris, you sly coquette. Take me. I'm yours.

I know. It took years just to get me across your threshold. Or border. (Same difference.)

But did you let that stop you? No. Of course not. You're a lady who knows what she wants, and you wanted my undying affection. Demanded it, really. Called to me from across the Atlantic with your Edith Piaf-laced siren song, patiently expecting my love to eventually blossom.

And blossom it has.

There were reasons, of course, for me to hold my heart at bay. After all, you're so ... you know ... French. Easy to get to. Common. Hardly off the beaten path. As disdainful of my country as mine is of yours.

And I've always been a rebellious vacationer. I crave the road less traveled. And you've ... well ... been around. Forgive me, my darling. I understand now I've been hasty in my judgments. I'd like to take it all back and issue a public declaration of my desire to return your affection. I expect it could take years and many return trips. I'm prepared for the sacrifice.

It might just be the plate of macarons talking. (Take puffy, chewy almond-flour cookies and fill them with anything from pistachio cream to chocolate ganache? Who'd think of that sort of thing? Paris.)

It could be one too many cafe creme. (Set row upon row of rattan chairs behind minuscule tables and encourage people to spend so much time there drinking coffee and eating croissants that the establishment half expects patrons to have their mail forwarded to their table? Who'd think of that sort of thing? Paris.)

It may be your insane subway system, reminiscent of New York City's with a nearly undecipherable maze of underground lines ready to fling you off to far away corners. (Refuse to cover the third rail and tile everything in a shocking, shining white? Who'd think of that thing? Paris.)

Or maybe it's everything about you. The museums. The slavish devotion to food. The fashion. Somewhere along the line, after the bombs stopped falling ... or perhaps because they did ... you started to take a big, happy, healthy bite out of life to make sure you always knew what if felt like to be living.

And I love you for that, lady. I love you for the fact that in 24 hours you've helped me return to a similar place inside of myself that's not only capable of but also craving that very sensation.

Merci.

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Photos

Hit The Flore
The venerable Cafe de Flore. Touristy, yes. But still a Paris institution.

Croissant and Cafe Creme
The true breakfast of champions.

Tight Quarters
Don jammed into a Paris subway.

How I Long for the Old View
I see towers where there were trees.

Seriously? Get Help.
No one needs this many choices of baked goods. No one. Not even me. But still, La Grande Epicerie cranks 'em out unlike anything you've ever seen.

We Do The Merengue. And The Cha Cha.
More sugar-fueled insanity.

Talk Into My Good Ear.
Detail from Van Gogh's self portait at the Musee d'Orsay.

We Even Have A Christmas Queen.
Festive decorations across the local store fronts.

Comments

[Timothy]

Big Grin~
I am tickled pink the she got you the way she did! Honestly I am little bit jealous as well. She is one tough cookie or should I say Macaroons or was it the Croissants? Did they melt in your mouth? Anywho...I am thrilled for you and your time in Paris. T-