I sometimes fantasize (actually, more than sometimes) about living in Paris. I feel like I’m in a trance when I’m there. Every place I turn, I see something that captivates me. The corner angle of a 16th century building, a woman buying a baguette at the local boulangerie, a fashion shop window display (oh, those Paris fashion shops!). I love listening to the language, watching French lovers in the Metro, seeing a shopkeeper proudly scrubbing the street in front of his business. I even feel a little giddy the moment I spot the Eiffel Tower.
My fantasy life in Paris includes living in a flat in St-Germain-des-Pres, with a balcony, of course, overlooking the famous rooftops; a stroll through a different neighborhood every day, with no special place I need to go; shopping for my dinner at the glorious market in Bon Marche, and snooping through Les Puces de Saint-Ouen (that’s the flea market) on a late fall Sunday afternoon, just as dusk is settling over the city.
The last time I saw Paris was a few months ago. I hadn’t been there for seven years because I always had too many obligations at home. I never stopped longing to go. Since that last short—but enchanting—trip, I’ve promised myself I will return at least once a year, as I used to do.