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 the church Saint-Sulpice. For the shy attempts at speaking French, swallowing the last syllables, pronouncing “chez pas” instead of ‘Je ne sais pas,’ trying to sound more Parisian, as our French professor taught us.
For being openly in love with my classmate, and secretly, with my then sixty-something language teacher. For the delicious smell of freshly made bread and croissants, coming from the bakery at the corner of my street.
For a tiny hotel on Boulevard Montparnasse, for the bookshops, for Rodin museum, for 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.
For the revelation, that everything will soon be over and that I’m going to miss that city for my entire life.
For an unexpected, deep imprint it had on me, on everything I’ve done afterward, and for searching and never finding that twenty-year-old me again, running in pouring rain, redheaded, wet, and laughing, I’ll forever love Paris.
If you miss Paris, plan to travel there, or just fancy getting in a bit of a Parisian lifestyle this weekend, I would recommend watching:
Rereading two of Hemingway’s masterpieces; A Moveable Feast and The Sun Also Rises will also get you in a Parisian mood.
