As Flea, Elizabeth and I dance around our room to Edith Piaf's La Foule while we pack our bags, it dawns on us. Leaving the City of Lights is always an unwelcome task. The atmosphere of Paris is so different to what the guidebooks tell us, yet so similar to what films show it to be.
In the end we went out yesterday night and we got drunk on Paris. On the flirty waiters and on the street performers. On the silver lining of the moon upon the gentle ripples of the Seine as the boats floated past us, as we screamed "Bonsoir" and "Je t'adore" at them. The French largely ignored us, the Korean and Japanese tourists were enthralled and waved back energetically. And although Elizabeth and I know that no city could take London's place, we find ourselves wondering when we will be able to come back and enjoy all these lights, these pain au chocolat smells, these couples fighting and making up a minute later, strolling off to some dark corner of Paris to kiss the night away.
Maybe next summer we'll manage to rent an apartment in Les Halles and literally street style the city to our liking. We would spend our time largely in Montmartre, sipping tea (English habits die hard) and philosophizing the afternoon away. Flea would probably get bored and wonder off to find another waistcoat and some clothing with Aztec prints (she's been going for the tribal trend lately and it looks really good on her, with her ever so tanned skin). Elizabeth and I would challenge Jean-Paul Sartre, while toying with our new foulards.
Oh the fun, the mind games!
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