In my imaginary Paris, there are no cars.
I’ve seen more Asian people in the Louvre in the last three weeks than I have seen in my lifetime, total.
Angelina’s is ground zero for thick, luscious, not particularly sweet hot chocolate, with a side of whipped cream.
Walking along the Seine over cobblestones is a tricksy, ankle-snapping risk, I don’t care what shoes you’re wearing.
Fascinated to see the way women actually moved in long skirts and corsets, via archival film footage in exhibits.
Pockets are absolutely essential, which is why I have only worn my otherwise ideal leggings once.
Most dangerous place in Paris is the stairs, whether marble (Louvre), wooden (apartment), escalator (Monoprix), stone (Seine) or concrete (Metro). Hiking up or down, it’s a compound fracture just waiting for a moment of inattention to happen.
I have to fight the urge to stroke, caress and pat the sculpture. And not bitch slap the people I see give in to the temptation.
Most useful tools; a tie between my iPhone (with a temporary global plan) and a small box of big safety pins, thick rubber bands, and large paper clips. I use these all the time.
I have never worn either coat I brought.
Skinny leg jeans are a must, Chucks are great, long thin scarves required.
Walking down the boulevard, lovers lean toward each other as if they are north and south poles of a magnet. I miss you, Boatie. Viva l’amour à Paris.