An American Girl in Paris: My Undying Love Affair with an Urban Eden

You heard me. I'm in love. With a city. Obvious jokes about my spinster status aside, I'll take Paris, France over a man any day...except maybe Fridays. Ok, scratch that: any day. But that could just be my spinster-ness, I mean my single-ness, talking. At any rate, in honor of my dear friend Kristin, who is about to set sail, or rather take flight, on a magical and much-anticipated, romantic European adventure with her lovely boyfriend (I know, I hate them too) I thought I would write a post about my devotion to the magnificent city of Paris. Believe me when I tell you that I know that there is nothing more horribly trite and unoriginal than saying you love Paris, but I think that's because Paris is just so goddamn, heartbreakingly lovable. You can't help but love it! And moreover, I really do, quite literally love Paris. Actually, this is not news. My unrequited love for the famed European metropolis began many many months ago (has it really been almost a year?!) like any other cheesey, fairytale love story might begin: It was in fact love at first sight. In all seriousness, it really was. I don't think I ever truly understood what "love at first sight" meant until I met Paris. I know, I'm really piling on the cheese. I'm just getting started. I can already tell that this post is going to be jam-packed with superlatives and sickeningly sweet, flowery diction. I'll take a brief moment to preface all of this by saying that some of the cheesiest, most cliche things in life are often true, which is why they are so cheesey and cliche. Just some food for thought.

Anyway, suffice it to say, that "love at first sight" for me, felt like....well, it felt like home. As I peered out of the taxi cab window as we entered the city on the way to my hotel, I was taken aback by how charged I was by the sheer sight of the city surrounding me - the trees and buildings whizzing by, the early-morning commuters speeding on their way to work, the shops opening up for the day. As we pulled up to the hotel, I stepped out onto the street, in the lovely Marais District, and I felt like I was home. Not a home I had ever been to before, but rather, a home I had never known, yet always known somehow. (I warned you.) I was so incredibly, magnetically drawn to the surroundings that I was momentarily speechless - this almost never happens. Surreal, I think is the word I'm looking for to describe it all. I was surrounded by buildings, people, smells, flowers, food - an entire world - that had always existed somewhere in a primordial fantasy of mine; a fantasy of the most perfect place I could ever hope to live in. Except it wasn't a fantasy. It was reality! And this made things even more surreal for me. The city appeared as if it had been pulled into extreme focus: the atmosphere was bright, crisp and almost uncomfortably clear. Everything was in technicolor. I was at once disoriented and grounded by this feeling and immediately head-over-heels in love.

You know what they say: first impressions are lasting impressions, and though these feelings I had for the city were conjured up quite immediately and suddenly, they were anything but fleeting. Everything I experienced over the next 6 days only confirmed and intensified those initial feelings. Over the course of those 6 days, I soaked up as much of the city as I possibly could. I stopped and smelled the roses everywhere I went, while still wanting to greedily take in as much of everything as possible. I walked the city, savoring every sound, flavor, face, metro stop, work of art and experience with a feverish enthusiasm that was borderline maniacal, all the while trying to maintain at the very least a surface level composure, if for no other reason than I wanted to avoid getting spat on. And with each inhale of the city I took, I knew I was becoming addicted for life.

And I was hooked. So hooked, my sister and I went back a second time a few months later for another 6 days. My jones for another hit is just as fresh and powerful as the day I left, even though it's been almost a year. But like most fairytale love affairs (or drug addictions, I suppose), time doesn't change the way you feel - it only numbs those feelings until your next encounter.

Everything about Paris was and is perfect, for me anyway, and I'll even begrudgingly include those snooty Frenchies who more often than not, made me want to slit my wrists. There is a never-ending list of reasons why Paris is the most amazing city in the world, and I couldn't possibly hope to cover everything with words ever, let alone in the space of a ridiculous little blog post, but one thing I will say is this: The people in Paris are a sight to behold. Everyone in Paris, and I mean EVERYONE, from the 83 year old, blue-haired lady in the Chanel suit, to the 6 year old rosy-cheeked boy in head-to-toe cashmere, is utterly and breathtakingly beautiful. Each and every Parisian you pass on the street is impeccably dressed from top to bottom, looking like something from the pages of Vogue. The city is a swirl of gorgeous faces and bodies (buildings included) and you (or at least I) can't help but feel just a little bit like an ugly duckling in such company. There are NO fast-food bellies, thunder thighs, Walmart-frequenting fatties or anything else of that nature, to be found in Paris. (Tourists don't count) It is a fairytale world pure and clean and free from all of those depravities. The men are tall and elegant, as are the women, but their beauty, like everything else in the city, while intimidating, is also overwhelmingly intoxicating. In short, Paris is beautiful through and through, right down to the shoelaces of the guy sitting next to you on the metro.

There are so many reasons to love Paris: the food, the art, the history, the beauty, the people, the clothes, the trees, the architecture...I could go on and on and on. But instead of even attempting to extol the wondrousness of the place, I will simply say that you must go there. For me, Paris represents Home with a capital "H" - it exists as an archetype, a sort of neo-platonic form of an ideal, something that is so perfect and pure, it can only exist as a concept. Except for that Paris is real! It's a dream-city realized and it's merely a hop, skip, a 9 hour plane ride, and two sleeping pills away. Right up there with Rome and San Francisco, Paris is one of those places I believe to be mine. That's not to say that it's no one else's - just that it holds a special place in my heart. Paris is my Heaven on Earth...and my Heaven in Heaven too, for that matter (minus those snooty Frenchies - I changed my mind about them). And though my notions regarding this lovely metropolis may seem mind-numbingly quaint and quixotic, make no mistake about it: it's true love. Needless to say, I can't wait to go back. I plan on living vicariously through Kristin and her fabulous romantic adventures for a quick fix. Which will largely consist of me, hunched over my computer screen, staring at her blog, obsessing over pictures and posts as I pine away. And until I am once again reunited with my beloved city, as I desperately seek out traces of Paris in the pages of Vogue, on museum walls, in glasses of wine and pounds and pounds of French cheese, on hangers in boutiques, and in the handfulls of Fauchon chocolates I stuff my face with, in the meantime, I will always of course have this to itch that un-itchable scratch:



(Sigh) That makes my heart sing. Every time. P.S. The [entire] movie is one of the best ways you could ever spend 113 minutes. Not to mention, Gene Kelly is my absolute DREAM MAN.