paris, je t'aime

I completely at this city's will. Everything from the sights to the language consume my entire being and cram up my brain until there is no room for anything other than "je voudrais..." and "tout va bien". I'm in love with the sounds of the French language...on the bus I feel like the man on the phone next to me is reciting a romantic, emotion filled love poem while he actually is discussing God knows what with his boss. The waiter asks if I want the bill, and I blush at how sensual it sounds. I can't help but have a romantic relationship with everyone I come in contact with, with a "bonjour, comment vas-tu?" And it's not just the language. This whole city has my head in a spin, and just like falling in love with a human being, I find myself at a loss for thoughts of my own. When the Notre Dame is staring you in the face on a daily basis, you tend to feel small in comparison. Paris, this relationship is amazing and everyday is a whirlwind, but I'm starting to lose myself in you. Though your romance has won me over, I can't compete with your lights glistening off the Seine, or your sparkling Eiffel Tower every hour on the hour, your museums which are themselves as historical as the works they hold, your beautiful natives, your rich food, or your heartbreakingly stunning streets. I'm torn, my dear city of lights. I would love nothing more than to stay with you forever, but I fear giving up myself entirely.

Maybe the best places are those we can both love AND hate, but fit into comfortably. This passionate love affair I have here cannot last...and I'll return home filled with the thrill of living in the midst of unimaginable beauty, but ready to settle back into life.

to be or not to be

He's beautiful in the way that Greek gods are beautiful. I don't know how his hair stays so damn voluminous without an overabundance of gel, and I marvel at the fact that I will never be able to say "princess" in French the way that this man does, with the P and the R making a sound I can't even begin to place in my brain. I catch him staring at me and I think about how my love handles have grown and how my fading dyed hair must be getting frizzy with the heat in this bar. I don't know how his hand got there, or what I'm saying that amuses him so much, but it's intoxicating. His assertive arrogance has me simultaneously mesmerized and repulsed. From my days of reading Twilight, I get the faint indication that I should run as fast as I possibly can from this gorgeous monster. My moment of hesitation is enough for him to wander, and for me to remember how much I want his hand to stay on my back while we piece together broken sentences in two languages to compose our conversation about nothing. I would talk about nothing with him for as long as humanly possible, because for those moments when we were there, I forgot that my body doesn't feel like it used to and began to think maybe my American accent is indeed sexy. His carefully premeditated movements equate to a well rehearsed choreography routine, and while knowing full well that it is anything but personal, the show of his attempt at impressing me has succeeded and has in fact entertained and fulfilled me.

And then I realize, that it's all a show for me. This worry about my appearance and the prospect of it changing, the capturing of another's attention, the planned words and actions- a show. Yes, this foreign man has me captivated, but eventually the routine has to end, and what will be left is really nothing of any substance. The most I could hope for is to find out the secret to his hair in order to repeat it on myself. As much as I'd like to stay for awhile and play the leading lady in his play, I've got to keep the real world in mind and peace out at intermission.