Paris, ma belle
It had been ages since I roamed the streets of Paris. I had spent one night in the city of romance a couple of months ago, but that doesn’t count. The next morning I was back at work in a blur, and Paris deserves more than a dozen hazy hours. So I went back. For my one and only summer holiday containing five sweet days of feeling so French it literally hurt.
I don’t know what was wrong with me but the more Parisian I tried to be, the clumsier I became. I bumped into people, fell off the stairs, walked a hole in my shoe and lost nearly all buttons of my only classy dress. Not my fault, but still. Honestly, I think it’s the world telling me I could never be French even if I was and actual baguette.
So I swiftly changed my persona into full-blown tourist mode. Snapping pictures like a maniac, drinking wine with Eiffel tower views, going on rendez-vous while speaking awkward French, sipping wine under the moonlight, eating crème brûlée in Amélies café, ordering wine every hour of the day because hey I’m in Paris and I’m on a holiday and this is as close as I can get to being a fancy Parisian mademoiselle.