The Paris Affair

I went to Paris for the first time, and I fell in love. I didn't mean to. It just happened. It was like an affair: it whisks you away before you can see it is a bad idea. Not that going to Paris was a bad idea. Spending too much time in Paris was a bad idea. I fell hard; I fell fast. I fell all at once, and I have sense been able to fully recover. It was a city that stole my heart before I knew my heart was capable of such a feeling.

It was a true affair. I was the adulterer and Paris was the charmer. Paris was taken by its Parisian men and women, by France itself, and I was the single American solo traveler coming to the city of love on a whim and was captivated by it all.

I quickly didn't like that I had to share Paris with the rest of the world, even if the city wasn't mine to keep, or mine to discover. I found myself suddenly jealous of the first person to discover such a lust for Paris that they were capable of coining Paris as the city of love. But then again, to share was better than to never have felt such a love before, right?

Despite knowing its crave by many other hearts and its commitment to the other side of the world, I still was sucked into its ambiance, intelligence and unique capability of making one want more. Even if only it was momentarily and I had to share the love for such a city, I craved it all. I craved the cities vibrant doors, street art and historical buildings. I craved the cities fine cuisine; its 5 ounce glass red wine with olive tapenade and colorful macaroons. I craved the cities uneven cobble streets, the diamond lights sparkling off the Eiffel Tower at night and its dark, tall and handsome Parisian men. It was a crave that only Paris could afford to seduce me with.

Before Paris, I was pure. I had fair loves, sweet loves and mature loves. I was able to love one thing at a time; one person at a time. I was able to control my emotions, rationally communicate my feelings and purely understand my actions and reactions. After Paris, I was crazed. I had to return home and with it, had to end my Paris affair. I was crazed with guilt from wanting to go back to it and no explanation but the way the city made me feel. I was crazed with the memories that played like never ending movie scrolls in my head. I was crazed with the tense feeling of love for every sight, smell, touch, sound and taste of the city. I was crazed by every physical and mental sensation that the city so graciously offered.

And yes, I talk about the city like a person. I don't know what an affair between a man and a woman is like. But I do now know what it feels like to go to Paris and have to return to the other side of the world. It was love alright; and passion, possession, and a connection. Paris consumed my head with tranquil art and history. It consumed my body with incomparable food and wine, and consumed my mind with beautiful memories and french language. And finally, it consumed my heart with a one of kind feeling of lust and desire that changed me forever.

In other words, I believe I felt what anyone would feel like with an affair: I felt jealousy, guilty, and crazy. I felt seduced, in love and captivated. I felt a newly defined type of love and yet, a non-monogamous one too. And so I have to say this: if that is true, and that is in fact what an affair feels like, then I see why people do it so often. If it is anything like a Paris affair, I would have to try it.