If You Go to Paris

Cobblestone streets and fresh baked bread. Paris comes to mind.

Fresh squeezed orange juice at the Bastille market.

Don’t touch the vegetables. They’ll know you’re a tourist.

On the counter of every boulangerie is a wooden tray with two divots.

Put your money in the spot closest to the cashier.

They’ll return your change in the divot facing you.

They probably won’t smile.

That doesn’t mean they’re not friendly.

At the base of Sacré-Coeur, don’t let them tie a bracelet around your wrist.

It isn’t free.

When you find yourself walking the streets near midnight, suddenly famished and smelling fresh bread, follow the scent of yeast and dreams.

Knock on the metal door.

If you’re lucky, your broken French will garner an invitation to the kitchens.

You’ll leave with two baguettes.

One you eat on the way home.

The other waits in the crook of your arm.

You’ll lay it on the counter, slice it in half.

Slather it with French butter and apricot jam.

You’ll go to bed dreaming of a city that spills its secrets like jewels in the hand of a caught thief.

Feel the decomposed granite crunch beneath your feet as you traipse through the Tuileries.

No matter what kind of shoes you’re wearing, it’ll get inside.

You won’t mind.

If the weather is warm, look for the man by the reflecting pools.

He’ll be wearing a cap and pushing a cart with little wooden sail boats and long sticks.

Take a moment to watch the children push them through the water.

See how the fragile beauty of childhood scatters amidst their laughs.

Stop by Paul’s. You’ll find a stand nearby.

Get a coffee. Don’t walk and drink it. They’ll know you’re a tourist.

Instead, sit in the green chairs, the cold metal will feel good against your skin.

And sure, walk the Champs-Élysées, all the way down to the Arc de Triomphe.

But your eyes will snag on the double row of elm trees on each side.

Their Elysian beauty ripples in the slight breeze, an architecture all their own.

You’ll fall asleep with the imprint of tomorrow’s promise humming under your breastbone.

Look closer, look deeper.

The art is everywhere outside the museums.

In the twelve-foot ladder where a gardener clips hedges by hand with a pair of scissors.

In the cant of a demitasse on a white bistro table.

In the dance of the Seine as it ripples the reflection of bridges so detailed and intricate you feel the need to pay for a ticket just to look at them.

In the feminine voice that announces the Metro stops.

Chåtelet.

Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Champs-Élysées-Clemenceau.

Linger near the falafel shop in the Latin Quarter.

Breathe in the smell of fried chickpeas and fresh hummus.

If a stranger in front of Notre Dame tells you that you dropped a golden ring, don’t take it.

Shakespeare & Co. is waiting for you.

Its Alice in Wonderland stairs will lead you to a covered nook.

Inside is a typewriter where famous authors have penned their famous words.

But look at the walls. Pinned inside that tiny space, covering every inch, are small scraps of paper.

Ink full of spilled secrets and lost dreams, bad poetry and good wishes.

Have a glass of wine.

Then have another.

And as darkness falls, wait for the lights to fly up the Eiffel Tower.

You’ll tell yourself it’s not worth the hype. You don’t want to be let down.

But as the hour strikes, something will move inside your chest.

It feels like beauty. Soft. Like a cherished memory.

And you’re smiling, but you don’t know why.

You’ll fall asleep feeling like three nights in Paris was a lifetime.

And yet still, somehow, never enough.

**If you've ever been to Paris or wanted to go, please leave a comment and let me know what you think! I've spent so much time there it's like my second home, and I miss it every day. And feel free to subscribe to stay up to date on more stories!