Munich.
I've never been to Munich.
The first time I was introduced to someone who became a very close friend in Paris, he warned me to never go. Danielle and I were basking in travel stories from our dreamlike trip to Barcelona and we were discussing other future trips (that we will in all likelihood never take). When Germany came up, he said that Munich would wreck my life. Thinking that something awful happened to him in Munich, I probed him further. He told me that he was so in love with Munich after living there for nine years that nowhere else made him happy anymore. No matter how great things were, they were tainted for him because he wasn't in Munich.
Today, speaking to him on the phone I declared Paris to be my Munich.
The past few weeks have found me enjoying myself and getting reacquainted with old friends and Toronto. My favorite travel technique in Europe was just wondering around and letting the city decide what we were doing and I've recently found that this works in Toronto too. It's resulted in some of the same magical feeling coincidences, hidden gems, and enjoyable nights. But there is always the thought in the back of my mind that this is not Paris.
The boy who took me on a date did not have a french accent.
Panorama is not the Ritz.
Lake Ontario is not the Seine.
A handshake is not a bisous bisous.
The CN Tower is not the Eiffel Tower.
So we talked; me here in my backyard and him sitting on the patio of my favorite bar in Paris. I made him describe to me everything about the early evening street. What he was drinking, what everyone was wearing, how dark the sky was, the temperature, which bartender was working, what movies were playing at the cinema across the street. He was hoping to make me feel like I was there but it made me feel farther away.
He asked for details of where I was so he could picture it. I described the deck that my uncle tends to extend every year, the cabana full of wicker furniture that I've spent many evenings and many bottles of wine in, I talked about the trees that were making it hard to find a good tanning spot, the sun lounger I was sitting on and the bikini I was wearing, the treehouse that every guest is forced to paint their name inside.
He said it sounded beautiful and it is, but now I have a Munich that is always in the back of my mind reminding me of everything that I'm missing.
The first time I was introduced to someone who became a very close friend in Paris, he warned me to never go. Danielle and I were basking in travel stories from our dreamlike trip to Barcelona and we were discussing other future trips (that we will in all likelihood never take). When Germany came up, he said that Munich would wreck my life. Thinking that something awful happened to him in Munich, I probed him further. He told me that he was so in love with Munich after living there for nine years that nowhere else made him happy anymore. No matter how great things were, they were tainted for him because he wasn't in Munich.
Today, speaking to him on the phone I declared Paris to be my Munich.
The past few weeks have found me enjoying myself and getting reacquainted with old friends and Toronto. My favorite travel technique in Europe was just wondering around and letting the city decide what we were doing and I've recently found that this works in Toronto too. It's resulted in some of the same magical feeling coincidences, hidden gems, and enjoyable nights. But there is always the thought in the back of my mind that this is not Paris.
The boy who took me on a date did not have a french accent.
Panorama is not the Ritz.
Lake Ontario is not the Seine.
A handshake is not a bisous bisous.
The CN Tower is not the Eiffel Tower.
So we talked; me here in my backyard and him sitting on the patio of my favorite bar in Paris. I made him describe to me everything about the early evening street. What he was drinking, what everyone was wearing, how dark the sky was, the temperature, which bartender was working, what movies were playing at the cinema across the street. He was hoping to make me feel like I was there but it made me feel farther away.
He asked for details of where I was so he could picture it. I described the deck that my uncle tends to extend every year, the cabana full of wicker furniture that I've spent many evenings and many bottles of wine in, I talked about the trees that were making it hard to find a good tanning spot, the sun lounger I was sitting on and the bikini I was wearing, the treehouse that every guest is forced to paint their name inside.
He said it sounded beautiful and it is, but now I have a Munich that is always in the back of my mind reminding me of everything that I'm missing.