A love letter to Paris


For the kiss, on the crossing of Boulevard Raspail and Rue de Rennes, for the  one bedroom apartment in the sixth district, near Église Saint -Sulpice, for the shy attempts in speaking French, swallowing the last syllables, pronouncing ‘chez pas” instead of ‘Je ne sais pas,’ trying to sound more Parisian, as our French language professor taught us, for being openly in love with my fellow classmate, and secretly, with my almost fifty something teacher, for the delicious, every morning  smell of the freshly made bread and croissants, coming from the bakery at the corner of my house, for a tiny hotel on Boulevard Montparnasse, where I stayed before renting an apartment, for the bookshops, for Rodin museum, for the Gertrude Stein’s home at Rue De Fleurus, that I passed every day, for being able to express myself freely in a foreign language, for the La Rotonde, and  ‘A Moveable Feast’ spirit, for the  gloomy, rainy days, and for being young, careless, reckless, adventurous, and  almost unconditionally happy every single day of my stay, for the revelation, that everything has an end, and that you’re going to miss it, possibly for your entire life, for an unexpected, deep imprint  that city had on me, on everything I’ve done afterwards, and  for searching and never finding that twenty year old me, running in a pouring rain, redheaded, wet,  repeating the ‘Vienne vite, boire, un bonne verre du vin blanc’ and laughing out loud, I’ll forever love Paris.






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