As cliché as it sounds, there's just something about Paris. It's this immediate change of atmosphere that you can sense the second you step off the plane and that lingers with you days after you leave. I have always had a special place in my heart for Paris, which is why I was overjoyed when the few days after I graduated my mother surprised me with a trip to France for a week.
As I packed my bags I couldn't help but think that everything I bringing wasn't "enough" for France. I imagined sauntering down the Champs Elysees in a tea length dress, macaroons in hand, an image that I figured was quintessential Paris. And so I ditched my jeans and opted for my favorite dresses and skirts, meticulously putting together my outfits and looking towards Taylor Swift for style inspiration.
The second I stepped off the plane, I knew I had made a mistake. It was cold. I'm not talking 30 degree NYC in the winter cold, but definitely not skirts and dresses kind of weather. The wind was brisk and the people of Paris walked elegantly and purposefully in their light sweaters and scarves. I had one pair of pants in my suitcase--some maroon skinny jeans that I had just picked up from Madewell. Not wanting to admit that it was not short skirt weather, I shivered through coffee in a café before giving into the pants.
My mother and I stayed at the Bel Ami, a charming and gorgeous hotel that serves the most amazing breakfast buffet (which we all know is important).
Now, I'm a firm believer in doing "touristy" things. I think that there are certain landmarks that everyone has to see, which is why one of our first stops was the Eiffel Tower. There's a reason why everyone goes--there are no words to describe the view from the top. I remember thinking that it looked like a painting or a world taken directly out of a children's fairytale.
Next up was the Louvre, the Orsay, and many more museums (there are too many to count). We filled the time with wandering down streets and popping in and out of little stores filled with clothing that we knew we could never pull off.
Paris is filled with lovers. Lovers kissing against bridges in the night, lovers holding hands while they sip their coffee. I watched a man look up from his meal to stroke his hand against his lover's face. As I watched the two, I remember thinking about how they interacted so perfectly; as if they had been doing it for centuries.
Before we knew it, our week was up. I headed to Charles de Gaulle airport and as I watched the plane take off, I couldn't help feeling that I was leaving behind a world. Paris truly felt like a dream; a dream that I hated waking up from.
Until next time,