PARIS, France | Before I had ever met her, my heart yearned for her. Unable to express or even understand it myself, I had always felt like I knew her. The depths of my stomach felt drawn to her like an unquenchable flame.
Perhaps it was through the perfectly constructed pages of Ernest Hemingway, the splashes of colour from Auguste Renoir’s work, or the aberrant cinema that I adore. The hours of listening to Seth Ford Young, trying the perfect Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon or while appreciating the depth of a hearty bordeaux wine. I am unable to distinguish if it was a gradual yearning or if it has always been buried in the depths of my soul; does it even really matter?
On this particular morning, I opened the windows of our apartment. The cool breeze caressed my body, blanketing my skin in a thousand goosebumps. I savored the silence enjoying the sea of terracotta chimneys emanate white smoke. Slowly we dressed and strolled lazily down the many laneways and cobblestone streets. We stopped at a bar for a brief expresso, then crossed the street to gather our morning breakfast, croissants aux amandes. A block away we located a petite garden nestled amongst some trees. As doves purred softly hidden in the tree’s sprigs, we reconciled with the naked branches that stood prominently against the sky. As we devoured the flakey pastry, the morning silence was interrupted by my heart composing a beautiful melody.
My love affair with this city is far from over.