Eating a succulent pear with the juice running down my arm as I slice it. Searching for a perfect baguette on a Sunday morning. Leaving my camera behind for the most part, and taking personal photos with my own memory. A cold, quiet walk through the cemetery on a rainy day. Looking out the window at the rooftops of Parisian apartments and feeling at home. Speaking French with everyone (I speak like a Canadian, apparently, at least that is what people kept telling me.) I took a stroll up the Christmas-Ready Champs Elysees almost nightly, taking in the Marche de Noel and watching the French be French.
Arriving in Paris, I immerged from a metro stop just by my favorite arc, in front of the Louvre, on Thanksgiving day-- feeling more grateful than I have in a long time. Paris is my friend, my confidant, my companion, my home, my seasons, my secret. Paris and I had long conversations. Paris and I understand one another. Paris and I take things slowly. Paris and I are grateful the other exists.