I meandered around the city, accomplishing my last few errands. Mostly picking up new gifts for my family to replace the ones stolen in the Spanish mail (a common occurrence, I recently learned).
I was walking across a bridge, not far from Notre Dame, when I saw a young couple holding a single red rose. The woman was slowly peeling petals from the bloom, and dropping them one by one into the Seine. Tourists bustled along around them, cars roared by (Paris is a real city, after all), and they were holding a quiet ritual.
I thought about whether they had always dreamed of Paris, whether they were here after long hopes. Paris as the city of love never rang true for me. It was too real, too much of a metropolis to stand up to my expectations of a paradise for lovers. I love the city, but I do not share the same sentiments I have found in other people, the earnestly described pull of its romanticism.
I have been fortunate enough in my time living there to have moments of heightened awareness, of a strong sense of place. Sometimes it would hit me while I sat with a friend, chatting over a glass of wine (I prefer red, if anyone was wondering). Or the classic market scene, or an obscure bookstore. But in the last 36 hours in Europe, I was intensely aware of where I was, trying to take in every moment, every word in French spoken, even in the places I had visited the most. I knew that I was leaving, and instead of being home, Paris became a place to memorize so I could take it with me.
I did not want to leave. At all.
Of course I was wondering if you prefer red or white wine!
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