Paris, je t'aime
Somewhere along the line, someone decided that graph paper was clearly superior to lined paper for writing in straight lines, that standardization in paper products (and freedom in school) was for wimps and losers, and that whoever thought doors should be easy to open from the inside in case of an emergency was clearly stoned. This person was Chief Engineer to the King of France, who was too inbred and worried about the price of bread to realize what a terrible idea it was, so he made it law.
At least, that's my theory. It ignores things like history and common sense, but it's my theory and I'm sticking to it.
But I love the way Paris woos me when I start to get weary. I get sick of the constant struggle to understand the basic concept of what people are saying and the difficulty in arranging my own words into some semblance of grammar, of the absurd cold so early in the season, of the fact that you have a push a button to open the door from the inside, and Paris escorts me out of class into one of those early fall days where there are leavings falling and brisk gusts of wind, but it's so warm you can't bring yourself to wear long sleeves. She lures me down to the Seine when I'm innocently searching for a bank, drops a cheap gyro in my lap, and leads me to the riverbank to eat my lunch accompanied by a street performer playing folk tunes on an accordion. As I'm walking home, she reminds me that there's excellent gelato on my route, and then serenades me with Coldplay's salsa version of "Clocks". And as I find my way back home, she shows me that if I'm ever within a mile of home but don't know how to get there, all I need to do is follow the signs to the freaking art museum that's right next door.
And suddenly, I'm falling back in love. (Best. Girlfriend. EVER.)
At least, that's my theory. It ignores things like history and common sense, but it's my theory and I'm sticking to it.
But I love the way Paris woos me when I start to get weary. I get sick of the constant struggle to understand the basic concept of what people are saying and the difficulty in arranging my own words into some semblance of grammar, of the absurd cold so early in the season, of the fact that you have a push a button to open the door from the inside, and Paris escorts me out of class into one of those early fall days where there are leavings falling and brisk gusts of wind, but it's so warm you can't bring yourself to wear long sleeves. She lures me down to the Seine when I'm innocently searching for a bank, drops a cheap gyro in my lap, and leads me to the riverbank to eat my lunch accompanied by a street performer playing folk tunes on an accordion. As I'm walking home, she reminds me that there's excellent gelato on my route, and then serenades me with Coldplay's salsa version of "Clocks". And as I find my way back home, she shows me that if I'm ever within a mile of home but don't know how to get there, all I need to do is follow the signs to the freaking art museum that's right next door.
And suddenly, I'm falling back in love. (Best. Girlfriend. EVER.)