After the delight of the Versailles gardens, we spent our final 3 days in Paris visiting the Louvre, admiring the public affections of Parisian couples and painting (drinking) on the banks of the Seine.
There really is no, one, attraction of Paris that makes this city so beautiful. It oozes passion. These people are passionate about their art, music, books, food, language, lovers, history, cheese, wine and people. A meal ordered in good French that suggests I learnt more than "hello", "please" and "thank you", earned me their good graces before any amount of tip. Even if I came out of every interaction with sweaty armpits and a racing heart, they appreciated it. Their language is beautiful and deserves the fierce passion of its people.
I always imagined Paris to be filled with kissing, groping, nauseously in love couples. Every bench, stairwell, ferry, metro, anywhere there is a place to stop, to be filled with these love drunk junkies.
It isn't.
It's lovely.
The couples kissing pop up here and there. Respectfully tucked to the side of a path allowing easy passage. Most of all, they sit, legs entwined, hugging, laughing and generally just chatting within their embrace. The healthiest public image of love I've encountered in any city. I aspire to be so romantically relaxed and free of judgement.
Lovers weren't the only Parisians that actually enjoyed their city, in fact, they wouldn't have even accounted for 50%. The majority of Seine picnickers were large groups of friends sharing their chips, cheese and cider. Laughing and chatting animatedly in French made me yearn for their language. To just reach over the gap between my culture and theirs and hold it in my arms for a moment. To be one of those French girls effortlessly existing in their simple style, and wisps of light curls and softly coloured lips. I would read on the metro, some beaten-up classic novel, written in French. I would sit by the fontaine in Tuileries and soak in the summer sunshine. And as the sun sunk below the horizon, I would wander back over the footbridge into Saint-Germain and pick up some œuf with mayonnaise, have a glass of wine and listen to the accordion player in the cobblestone streets.
Paris, je suis à toi,
Tate x
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