Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Parfait.

Not sure if you recognize where this is, but it's a little ol' city called Paris. It's in France. You remember France, right? That's where Carla Bruni lives.

I am not a person of extremes. I am generally moderate in most of my stances and am easily annoyed at hyperbolic statements such as "British Columbia: Best Place on Earth." But there is of course one exception to this: Paris, in its grumpy and poetic glory. If one were keeping track of such things, Paris could very well be my third home (or fourth, fifth, or sixth. I would be so lucky to even call it my sixth home). Whenever I am there, I feel unapologetic about loving beautiful things. Even the filthy black crevices in between all of the stones seem to whisper sweet nothings to me. Cafe au laits and butter croissants in the morning? Perfection. Strawberry mint macarons from Laduree and a bottle of rose in the afternoon at the Jardin du Luxembourg? Sublime. Half a tomato and a baguette with a glass of bordeaux in a plastic cup along the river? Incomparable. It all seems so lovely and downright ridiculous - with certainty some jerk is playing the accordion in your head right now - but it's true! They aren't being ironic! Those languid French bodies in the sun smoking cigarettes are completely serious.

Almost every moment I spend in Paris I think about why I am not there more often (or always), while loving and dreading each minute that passes, as I know my time there is limited. Paris has got a lot of problems, this I know. I am just not interested in learning about them. Not yet.