I dreamed of Paris my whole life. When I was a little girl I used to watch Rick Steves European Travels with my mom every Sunday. She used to tell me I would be her world traveler. When you spend so long dreaming about something you can almost convince yourself it’s going to be a disappointment because you have built it up so much in your head.
For Paris there is an actual term for it, Paris Syndrome, and its when you suffer from depression after being disappointed that it isn’t as romantic or beautiful as you had made it out to be in your brain. I have a different definition of Paris Syndrome, it’s when fall in love with Paris from every cobbled street to graffitied wall.
Paris is a metropolitan city. It has visible flaws just like any major city. To me thats what makes it so beautiful. While being modern Paris still holds on to its true identity. Reminders of its complicated past, tokens from the Belle Époque line the streets, a seat in a cafe transports you to the 1920’s, stained glass windows paint the city, and the smell of food fills every alleyway and street. You can sit for hours with a coffee or a glass of wine watching pedestrians and tourists walk by. Each telling you a different story. Take shelter by your window watching the rain elegantly dances like liquid diamonds from the sky.
The Moulin Rouge where Toulouse Lautrec made friends with dancers and courtesans as he sketched. The endless stairs and cafes in Montmartre where lovers leave locks as promises of love on railings. Drinks and dinner at Pink Mamma before a dazzling cabaret experience at Le Crazy Horse. A stroll under the Eiffel Tower at night all lit up like a small piece of heaven. A drink at Harry’s New York Bar to imagine the escape from prohibition in the 1920’s. Paris is a virus with no cure and the symptoms are love, imagination, endless dreams, and everlasting memories.