paris, i'll sleep with you any night
Even after two hours of sleep, when I stepped into the city centre of Paris I felt more alive than I have in a long time.
The night before I left I cried bricks, choked on my breath, and struggled to understand what I was feeling. It wasn't until I was seated on the plane that my breathing grew steady again. Any fear I had was replaced with excitement and absolute happiness.
I feel as if some of the people here are hired actors, trying to fit the Parisian stereotype. Men wear fitted, stylish clothing fearlessly. Some carry baguettes, some wear pants tigher than mine, and I saw one toting an Yves Saint Laurent laundry bag with superiority, his nose high up in the air.
Even in my sleeplessness, wandering aimlessly in my sweatshirt and my dirty hair scrunched into a messy bun, I feel beautiful in this city.
Everywhere you look is sensuality: the city is dominated by food, fashion and sex. Everything I love is no longer taboo or sinly.
I stopped in at a hip cafe for lunch. I was served an artistic salad, filled with balls of boccocini cheese, melon, olives, tomatoes and cucumber. On the side was a freshly baked roll, quenching my appetite for real French bread. As if it needed to suit my tastes even more, a stack of free women's fashion magazines lay suggestively by my my table.
After lunch I wandered through my favourite department store, Galleries Lafayette, and let my jaw hang as I admired clothes in my sleepless state.
I finally gave into sleep and rested for a couple of hours before setting off again. I wandered until my feet ached, tried out the Paris metro system, and took myself out for dinner.
For dinner I feasted on a giant salad nicoise-the ultimate tuna salad-with bread and "un pichet" of their cheapest white wine.
The waiter was a young charmer, and broke a wine glass almost everytime he went near me. He flattered me throughout my meal, told me I had beautiful eyes, and showed great dissapointment when I asked for the check. By the end of my small jug of wine, I was on my way to a state of flirtatious drunkeness, and accepted his compliments greatfully.
The city has flaws like any other, but when one is in love flaws are rarely noticeable.
Is it love? Possibly. For now lets call it amour.
I apologize for spelling mistakes, I'm drunk, in love, and struggling with a French keyboard.
The night before I left I cried bricks, choked on my breath, and struggled to understand what I was feeling. It wasn't until I was seated on the plane that my breathing grew steady again. Any fear I had was replaced with excitement and absolute happiness.
I feel as if some of the people here are hired actors, trying to fit the Parisian stereotype. Men wear fitted, stylish clothing fearlessly. Some carry baguettes, some wear pants tigher than mine, and I saw one toting an Yves Saint Laurent laundry bag with superiority, his nose high up in the air.
Even in my sleeplessness, wandering aimlessly in my sweatshirt and my dirty hair scrunched into a messy bun, I feel beautiful in this city.
Everywhere you look is sensuality: the city is dominated by food, fashion and sex. Everything I love is no longer taboo or sinly.
I stopped in at a hip cafe for lunch. I was served an artistic salad, filled with balls of boccocini cheese, melon, olives, tomatoes and cucumber. On the side was a freshly baked roll, quenching my appetite for real French bread. As if it needed to suit my tastes even more, a stack of free women's fashion magazines lay suggestively by my my table.
After lunch I wandered through my favourite department store, Galleries Lafayette, and let my jaw hang as I admired clothes in my sleepless state.
I finally gave into sleep and rested for a couple of hours before setting off again. I wandered until my feet ached, tried out the Paris metro system, and took myself out for dinner.
For dinner I feasted on a giant salad nicoise-the ultimate tuna salad-with bread and "un pichet" of their cheapest white wine.
The waiter was a young charmer, and broke a wine glass almost everytime he went near me. He flattered me throughout my meal, told me I had beautiful eyes, and showed great dissapointment when I asked for the check. By the end of my small jug of wine, I was on my way to a state of flirtatious drunkeness, and accepted his compliments greatfully.
The city has flaws like any other, but when one is in love flaws are rarely noticeable.
Is it love? Possibly. For now lets call it amour.
I apologize for spelling mistakes, I'm drunk, in love, and struggling with a French keyboard.
posted by Gillian Young at 12:31 PM
4 Comments:
Je t'aime aussi.
-Paris
I'm envious Gill. Amusez bien. Et, je t'aime aussi.
So happy to read this post!
I am so happy that you enjoy every little thing about Paris.. You are aware of how fortunate you are to have been able to be there while some, like myself are stuck in their shitty small towns.. I enjoy your experience in Paris, it almost feels like I'm reading a book..
Paris to me, a small towner... isn't something I can even imagine really. I keep referring back to the last couple of episodes of Sex in the City, when I think of Paris. Keep up sharing your intriguing experiences online, I really enjoy reading about them..
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