I always say that a trip to Paris has to end, for any tourist, with a great kiss, a long walk or a beautiful meal. And if it can be all of the above, then all the better.
Today I found a little notebook bound in pale gold leather, one that I carried on a trip to Paris sometime in June 2012. It’s been more than three years since that beautiful time, but I remember certain moments like they were just yesterday.
The first page detailed impressions of our first day, “the prettiest doors and windows, soft beige stone, a charming hotel room, perfect scrambled eggs, good bacon.”
Perhaps it was evening when I wrote: “I look down from our bathroom window to see lovers in the night, kissing by a street light, the sound of tinkling laughter, French words that have lots of ‘V’s. Sexy.” “Rosebushes reaching out from black grills with Rococo details, white bread that looks like Tempur mattresses and tastes like a dream. I am soaked in joy.”