Wander logo

Owning Every Second of Paris

A city to fall in love, and get over love.

By CarolinePublished 2 years ago 30 min read
Like
Owning Every Second of Paris
Photo by Grillot edouard on Unsplash

There is a song verse by OneRepublic that goes like this: "I owned every second that this world could give; I saw so many places, the things that I did, yeah with every broken bone, I swear I lived."

The song came on as I boarded the plane to Paris, France. Was it random, or did my mind trick my fingers into searching for that specific song among the 2000 I had in my Spotify 'liked songs'? Who knew really, but there it came, that same feeling inside. I felt the tears behind my eyes form, and the shiver run throughout my entire body. It was just one of those songs; it spoke to the soul. I felt the urge to crank the song up so loud that my ear drums would surely start dissipating, but thought otherwise as I sat down in the window seat of the plane, next to two other passengers that probably wouldn't appreciate hearing it second hand. No matter, this trip was happening. Now more than ever, I needed this trip. I not only wanted to get away, but I knew it was only going to help me fulfill my purpose and passions. It was expensive, and it took a lot of planning and mentality to not back out, at any given moment, but the moment actually came and I was ready to go. I knew I was probably running. But the part even I wasn't sure of was what I was running from. Or what I was searching for.

"You're smiling a lot, my dear. Is it your first time in Paris?" The older lady next to me nudged me slightly, obviously trying to get my attention, and I barely heard her as I quickly took my headphones out. I hadn't even noticed I was smiling but sure enough, I was.

"Oh, yes it is. I am so excited!" The lady matched my smile.

"Are you traveling alone?"

"Yes, I just moved to Austin and about to start my masters, so I wanted to do something fun for myself. And I have never been to Europe before but I heard it is amazing!" Her eyes widened, expressing a mix of impressed and surprised emotion. I did leave out the details of why I chose Paris, or why I was looking for fun. I left out the part that I booked this trip randomly and completely nowhere after my french and now ex boyfriend and I broke up.

"Oh honey, it is. Do it. Good for you. Make sure you travel and explore as much as you can while you are there! If you go into debt, just know you will make it back up. At your age, you will turn out fine. But this will be something that you will never regret." At this, she patted my hand with her long, aged and freckled fingers then turned forward in her seat, and opened up the reader's digest she had tucked away in the front pocket.

I wasn't necessarily looking for advice, but what she said was true, and comforting to know. I was one to save ampules of money and be very cautious of how I spent it. I refused to go into debt, and carefully planned accordingly to what I was making. I managed my money well, and therefore knew I could afford the trip, but also told myself that I was going to enjoy my trip. My father taught me this, and even if he didn't verbally express it to me, I learned through his own actions.

"Thank you, I will." I smiled wider and we turned to our own distractions. I was very intrigued by the lady's reaction to me saying I was going by myself. I could tell that was when her eyebrows raised and her comfort level to share her personal feelings about the trip came about. As if sent from God, I needed this trip, for many reasons, much of which I have a hard time admitting to myself, or my heart. The conference was only three days, but I extended my trip for two weeks. What perfect timing.

I flew into Charles de Gaulle, and took a train into the city, or 7th arrondissement. I was told by my ex, who was actually French and from Paris himself, that the city of Paris from the center out was like a spiral starting with the 1st arrondissement and expanding out. He said that the farther out you were the more tough the city was, and that all of the tourists stayed within the first eight arrondissement. It was a little ironic that my ex boyfriend was French, and yet this is my first time in Paris, let alone Paris, without him. It wasn't that I was going to Paris because of him, but I also wasn't not going to Paris because of him... I was just going.

I was so blinded back then, but it was very clear now that we were never going to work out. He was too much of a tool, who played me and tried to control me. But he had me at hello, literally. He pulled me in with his dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes and foreign accent. He had me at his intelligent dress, classy way of opening wine bottles and pristine manner. He kept me with this confident words, bad boy vibes and sweet disposition-- when he wanted to give it. I fell hard and I fell deep. It was alot, and more than I could handle. It was emotional, lustful and a world wind of a ride. But the one thing it wasn't was love. So for my sake, I just hoped not all of the Parisian boys were like him, or I would be in new world of trouble over here in the city of love.

It was weird walking down the cobble streets of Paris, because one in every five French men I saw looked like they could have been Louis' twin. I shivered at the thought of seeing him again, not because I was scared of him, but because it was the past, and I refused to live in the past any longer. Coming to realization of what I was thinking, and where I actually was, I shook my head, cursing at myself for even thinking of such nonsense. I was in Paris, France, this was not the time to dwell.

I found a tiny Air B n B in the 7th arrondissement, but refused to spend time sleeping, no matter how tired I was or the seven hour time difference. A thick green double door marked with two brass door knobs equivalent to its home and statue stood before me. I suddenly felt foreign, and I loved it. A blue plate with white stained letters hung above it, marking my residence at Rue La Casas. The code box lit up appropriately for the 12hr 00 of the day and I followed the given instructions by pressing the five digit pin, feeling as if I were mistakenly breaking and entering. I had done Air B n Bs before in America, but this somehow felt spontaneous.

"Bonjour, comment..." immediately the rushed language of French took me back and that was the only words I understood from the lady who suddenly stood before me. Instinctively and idiotically, I threw my hand up horizontally across my neck speaking poorly, "Non Francais''. I was hoping she had enough understanding of English to at least understand that, but by the looks of her reaction, she knew as much English as I knew French. Instead, she motioned me to the back of some sort of corridor and pointed up a stairwell of very tiny, tight, and spiral stairs. I took it that was my next move, and in unison, we both stared at the luggage I had manhandled just this far. Face telling all, she made it very clear that she had no faith in my ability to carry the 25kg rolling suitcase up the apparent five flights of stairs before me. I knew beforehand there was no elevator, but the style of the stairwell was not made known to me. I nodded my head at her with full reign of confidence, butchered a quick "Merci '' and waited until she stalked off shaking her head before facing my first first real challenge of being in a foreign land.

Having accomplished my task of unloading, I finally made it out of the doors of my living space for a few days and out onto the streets of Paris. I felt a breath of fresh air, and inhaled as much of it as I could, causing a lightness to fill my body. Breathing deeply was becoming a new norm for me. Breathing deeper, more aware and with purpose. I was convinced that there was a big difference between taking a breath and breathing.

It was noon Paris time, the day was young and I was not going to waste one minute of it. I mesmerized the city, from the color of the sky which seemed more blue to each brown and grey stone on the ground that caused my feet to quickly need to conform to a new rhythm. I felt my eyes going every which way it could, taking in the buildings, people and aroma. I smelled crepes, heard French chatter that sounded like foreign music to my ears, and stared wide eyed at each huge door of the back to back buildings. The doors were magnificent. They were all different colors, from violet to orange to blue to yellow. They all had unique and varied sized door knobs with beautiful engravings. It was mesmerizing. As much as I didn't want to be a tourist, I couldn't help it.

I was getting rather tired, despite the fighting to not fall asleep. The heat, with the lack of sleep and the adrenaline was all getting to be a lot, but I ended up finding the best spot to settle for a bit. It was called the Invalides. I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower in one direction, and the edge of the Louvre in the other. It was this vast area of pure, luscious greenery that seemed to be a hot spot for mid day breaks, picnics and sun bathing. There were so many locals sitting on blankets with backpacks filled with snacks and wine, followed by laughter, smiles and relaxation. I envied every single one of them. It was only 2pm by now, so I didn't know how there were so many people out and about. Did they not have to work? What did they do? Whatever it was, I wanted to do it too. I lied down on the grass that felt just as luscious as it looked, took in another breath of fresh air, and closed my eyes. I wanted to feel the city. The country. The continent. It was all so foreign to me, new and... grand. I suddenly fell in love with it. And I thought I didn't know what love was. Between my ex, Elliot and now being in a new country, my definition of love was being completely, utterly and drastically redefined each and every day.

Despite wanting to explore, and see everything possible, I also knew a big part of Paris was its food and wine, so that evening, I had a cheese plate, red wine, olives and bread. I ate all of it which was probably a million and one carbs, but worth every bite. Not that I was thinking about Louis at all, but I did remember him telling me that even the best bread in America was still the worst bread in France. And he was right. So right. The waiter was super friendly, and when I tried to order in French-- having done a few lessons on babble before hand-- he didn't make fun of me, just laughed and helped me say it correctly. He taught me that "Je deveiner" meant "I would like". I should have asked him what "I would like to stay in Paris forever" was in French because it was true. And until that moment, I realized that it was the longest I had gone without thinking of Elliot, or the fist bump. See I was already over it. Almost anyway.

I finally couldn't take it any longer and passed out in my 300 square foot studio at 7pm. I tried, I really did. There was something about being so exhausted that nothing appealed to you besides the softness of the pillow and the comfort of the bed. Or so I thought. The bed was about 5 foot 6 inches long, so I was thankful I was 5'5 and 3/4ths because I barely fit. I quickly learned that they don't have air conditioning and their bathrooms were the size of a pantry. Choose your battles, they say. Well, my battle was chosen: Paris with no air conditioning or America. I chose Paris. I would choose Paris every time. So despite being half naked in a foreign country, I fell asleep with only a smile on my face and not one thought racing in my mind. It seemed a man was not the only thing that could get me to undress freely, feel calm and live in the moment.

The next day was even better than the day before.The scenery of Paris, France resembled that of a pastel painting in which only one wonders it's true realistic resemblance as they admire such beauty and perfect contrast. The set patterns of white, orange and brown followed the endless dated buildings along the Seine river. Patches of full seasoned trees brought out the color that the city oh so well presented. With history apparent on every corner, red cafes and randomized graffiti and art down off traced alleys, one could only continue to wonder if this was in fact reality, or possibly just the set of a 1920's movie. The air felt more crisp, the rays of the sun more prominent and the desire to contain the cultural virtue of such a known city, ran deeper in the blood of the Parisians. Being an outsider looking in, I started to ponder and smile. I knew if someone really saw my facial expressions as I walked, they would think I was crazy. And maybe I was, but I was crazy in love. Again, I knew I was the one to fall hard and fall fast, but I could honestly say I never thought a place could make me feel the same way as what I thought love could be for a man. But it could. Oh boy, it could.

America was so different than France. I was raised in a land of the free-- a country so passionate to respect and love without fault the walls within the bordered states, that Americans call home, and I loved it. I did. I loved seeing the red, white and blue stripes flying high at every school and outside buildings. I loved the talk among strangers about their country despite politics, religion or further beliefs. One thing the blood of American citizens shared was their pride of the great country, the United States of America. But there was also something oddly satisfying and intriguing about being somewhere foreign. As the French locals heard my American accent, many would say in their perfect French, "Bienvenue a Paris", in which I would reply with my best "Merci". The desire to fit in here, in a land I knew nothing more than from stories and tales, flooded my curiosity and desires. I couldn't explain it, but I suddenly wondered if it was the same feeling that foreigners feel when they step on my countries soil.

If only I spoke French. I loved everything already. The beauty and amazing architecture. I felt like I was in a different world, not just a different country. The only thing I didn't like, not that it was any sort of deal breaker, was that I couldn't converse with the people in French. I heard them, all around me, speak that beautiful, elegant love language, but I wanted to know them. Everyone was super accommodating to my very poor attempt at French, but it was still embarrassing. What is it that I come from a country where we just expected everyone to speak English? What if someone just started speaking French to me on the streets of Texas? What would I do? How would I react? Why was it okay for them to conform to our language but I didn't have to conform to the Parisians? I couldn't, that was why, but that was also why I felt guilty and embarrassed. I wanted to, more than I had ever before. I could only say what I could and recognize words because of the French I heard pretty regularly with Louis and his friends. I started being able to recognize words, yes, but with their dialect and their speed of conversation, it never came to me more than just recognition of words spoken.

Stopping at a cute place called Cafe Solferine on Rue de Solferino for lunch, I ordered some tuna and artichoke salad... two foods I did not like. I mistakenly ordered without translating all ingredients, but I ate it anyway. For some reason, I didn't hate it, and I was sure it would have tasted a lot better here than if I had ordered it in America. Everything here, I quickly learned, seemed just better. Even the people. Everyone in Paris was beautiful, and everything from a building to a tree was beautiful. No wonder Paris has a reputation, a status quo and is known as the city of love. I finally got it all. As I ate, I observed. I noticed people drove like crazy here, but hadn't seen any accidents. They park literally within inches of each other, honked a lot and no one seemed to follow the crosswalk rule. In fact, I could go so much as to say it would be almost more taboo to not J-walk than to not to, and again, I loved it. There were ambulance sirens constantly, but I never found their desired destination, and the men stared, a lot. They stared at me too, and where I was obviously flattered, I didn't understand it. Compared to the women they were constantly surrounded by, I could tell they were quite intrigued by me too.

Within my time exploring Paris, much more happened than any random day walking the streets of Austin, Texas. I had a 60 plus year old waiter give me his name and number on a coaster, a server opening up his restaurant on a boat on the Seine river stopped me as I walked by and invited me to have a beer with him, and a man in a car almost hit a bike as he turned a corner because he was staring at me as he turned, and not looking where he was driving. Walking the 38,000 steps that day in Paris, so many thoughts flooded my mind about the beautiful foreign land. It was time to quench my thirst and hunger after a long, productive and magical day.

"May I join you?" I asked a boy at an open table at a small cafe I passed. I decided to take the brave path of asking rather than creepily lingering and waiting for him to hopefully offer the spot up to me. I didn't exactly know, but something told me that was not how they did it in France. He nodded and moved his knee over so I could position myself within the small space without going around him.

"American?" He said suddenly, after my red wine, baguettes and wine tapenade arrived, thrilling my eyes with its ambiance as much as it thrilled my eyes on the idea of pleasurable eating it.

"We recognized the American by your ya'll. Texas? I've been once." Clara said, who had lighter hair and didn't look as foreign as the other two girls. So many questions.

"Yes, from Texas." I gave an obvious and over dramatic sigh, and followed it with a shy smile.

"I have never been to Texas." He had a thick, but very beautiful accent. I felt a shiver run down my entire spine as if he had breathed those words on my neck, but he in fact had not. I turned slightly, facing him now and realizing how elegant and poised he sat. I pulled my shoulders back, suddenly realizing my own poor posture.

"I am Alexandre." He said. I realized that his body was really close to mine, closer than when I first sat down and somehow I felt his presence. Like in the way I could tell he worked out, he was broad shouldered and he was definitely attracted to me. I could just tell by the way he was leaning his body toward mine. I could tell because it was the same way my ex acted around me at one point. His V-neck showed off his very prominent clavicle, his skin was a nice olive tone and his legs were long.

"I am Caroline."

"Je suis Carol-ine." Alexandre said, and my mouth went dry. Or watered. Or whatever your mouth did when it wanted those words on your own lips. His accent felt more like he was singing to me, then speaking. Was he really from France?

"What brought you to Paris?" I loved the way he said Paris. It was so... sexy and smooth. Though she had put me on the spot, I liked him. He seemed... cool.

"I have never been to Europe, and I knew someone from Paris, so here I am. But I am also having some fun before I start my masters program. I will be too busy to travel for a while once I start so I am doing it now."

"I guess that is what it means to live the American dream." Alexandre said.

"Or live to work." I corrected, and shrugged.

"You are right, we work to live." He said, and I envied him.

"I noticed that, even in the short few days I have been here. This is my first time in Europe, but I already see a huge difference in lifestyles."

"How so?" Alexandre questioned. He was quite intrigued by my words. I could tell. His eyes were on me every time I spoke, to the point I almost wanted to wipe my face because maybe there was something on it instead. The Europeans loved me, what could I say.

"I mean yesterday I was walking past, what do you call it, the Invalides?" I stopped, embarrassed by my clear mispronunciation of such an evidently beautiful word.

"Les Invalides." He corrected, but in a sweet manner.

"Yes, there, and people were just sitting, eating and tanning on the lawn-- sorry, grass-- at like two in the afternoon."

"That is very normal for us." Alexandre said, and suddenly I wanted to be part of the us that she referred to. Maybe I could get him to marry me. Kidding. Or not.

We continued to chat, through my wine, bread and olives, and I realized that our conversation suddenly became a two hour affair.

"Ah, we need to leave soon." Alexandre said suddenly, looking at me as if he had a secret. He was suddenly speaking to the waiter in french. I was dying to know what he was saying. I know they didn't see, or at least I didn't think they did, my eyes as they completely widened, and I watched them in awe. It was a beautiful sight: two beautiful people speaking a beautiful language. It was the same feeling when you see a painting of some scene that you just instantly fall in love with, or stared in awe at the perfection of an image. It was like that, but live. He shrugged, but smiled, and then turned to me. Our eyes met, and I was suddenly happy it was dark outside, because I definitely felt my cheeks flush

"Where are we going?" I asked. I realized I agreed to follow him with no hesitation or reservation. He could be taking me anywhere, but for some reason, I felt excited.

"You will see." Alexandre said, and his accent was literally like the voice of a male, French angel. His accent, somehow, was more smooth and calm than my exes was. Alexandre finished his words with a higher pitch voice, where my exes words were harsh. He always told me to articulate better, but hearing another French talk with such poise, I suddenly wished I could have told him to articulate smoother. Clearly it could be done, but I just always believed prior that that was the way of the French. It wasn't. I realized that his hard voice was as hard as his personality.

We made our way out of the Louvre and instead of walking toward the busy streets, Alexandre led me through the Pyramids. Was I really walking around Paris right now at night with a hot Frenchman? Could life get any better... I was not going to answer that right now.

"Do you know much about French culture?" He asked, as I matched his pace.

"No, unfortunately." I smiled, and he turned away shyly. Was this a French thing, or an Alexandre thing?

"Ah, well, this is called the Pyramide du Louvre, and it serves as the entrance to the Louvre museum. This area is the Cour Napoleon, or courtyard of the Louvre Palace." He instigated to the ground beneath our feet, and kept walking with his shoulders back and his head held high. We started walking past the pyramids on the lightly colored gravel road toward a fountain, surrounded by trees perfectly aligned parallel to the road, and statues of shapes and virtues that predominantly stood out. Did they all walk like this? I hadn't noticed until now, but it seemed so because the few other people I saw also walking in the early night, had the same posture. Suddenly, I wanted that posture too. Americans had bad posture.

It was beautiful. I had already walked this area on my own the day before, but something about a local, telling me about it using French words and saying it with a French accent, made it so much better. It made it more real than through my own American eyes. Following his lead, I wondered if we would now turn toward the lively city center, or the desolate Seine river with lights, romantic seating and the Eiffel tower. To my complete satisfaction, we went down the road that seemed to be a path toward a fairy tale. We stepped onto a beautiful bridge with gold statues and white pillars that stretched the entire Seine river, and crossed over to the Invalides, the area I had mesmerized only the day prior.

"The Pont Alexandre III connects the Champs Elysees quarter, that arch monument you saw a far"-- he had pointed at it but didn't say much because I was assuming he knew I knew what it was, which I did, sort of-- "and has been considered a historical monument in France since 1975." I tried not to keep staring at him as he talked, but I couldn't help it.

"The Seine river-- he said seine differently than I did even in English-- has been the inspiration and subject for many famous impressionist paintings, including Monet." I nodded over and over like I knew that already, but I didn't.

"You know Monet is French right?" I nodded again, but I also didn't know that, per say. I could have guessed based on his name but I hadn't ever really 'learned' it.

"He lived most of his life in Paris, but he bought land and painted his famous water lilies in a little town called Giverny, not too far outside of Paris. Easy train ride." I noticed myself still staring at him in awe. I felt like a child opening their eyes and seeing everything for the first time. He looked at me and smiled. I quickly turned away, trying not to blush. We were passing the Invalides now, and I saw us heading toward the Eiffel tower. I was excited.

"Pour le plaisir des yeux et aussi pour les motifs à peindre." He said smoothly but the only word I recognized was yeux. It meant 'eye' in French.

"What?" I asked him, but refused to make eye contact. It was all too much. Too sexy.

"For the pleasure of the eye and also for motifs to paint." He repeated in English, and though it was my own home language, it still sounded foreign coming from him.

"It was Monet's reasoning for creating that garden." He added.

"Beautiful."

"We are meeting them at the Eiffel tower, if you wanted to know. I am not just taking you on a tour." He said after a few blocks of not talking.

"A few hours before midnight, on the hour after dark, the Eiffel tower lights up. You will be impressed."

"Okay." I choked. I couldn't get anything else out honestly. To be sitting under the Eiffel tower with an at him was beyond me. He suddenly stopped and he held out a hand to stop me as I almost ran straight into him. My hand caught myself by grabbing his forearm briefly, and I was right: he definitely worked out. It was all muscle. I let go quickly but not before I saw a sly smirk on Alexandre's face. He looked back in front of us, and I must have been distracted by his words or beauty because I completely didn't realized where we were.

The Eiffel tower was now in full sight before me and my mind had blanked. It was more beautiful at night. The atmosphere had entirely changed, where during the day there were people walking around and taking pictures, but now a lawn full of blankets, wine and cheese.

Facing the Eiffel Tower, so beautiful, regal and sturdy, everything changed. Where one minute it was like a shadow in the sky, the next minute it was like a Christmas tree. There were lights flashing on and off, all over the entire structure and lighting up the night sky. It was extravagant. I could feel my eyes widen and my body crave the view. There were words to describe, only long stares with minimum blinking.

"Wha...." I tried to get out, and everyone laughed with head nods telling me without words that they all understood my reaction completely. It just seemed like one of those moments that you could see over and over again and it would never get old. We watched, and where we saw the Eiffel tower flicker and stop for what seemed like hours, the night was getting late and I knew it was time for me to go. I started to put my stuff together, implying I was about to leave, when my eyes met Alexandres. I don't know if it was because of the situation-- the romantic under the sparkling Eiffel tower at night current scenario-- or something else, but I knew right then he was into me. He stood up, and put his hand out for me to grab. I didn't hesitate, but I did refrain from looking anywhere else but him because I felt all eyes on me. They all knew what was going on just as much as I did.

"I will walk you home." He said quietly, spoke a little French to his sister and turned toward the direction of my place. I followed him, his hand in mine and I felt warmth spread through me. I knew the ball was in my court at this moment, and yet, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. I felt excited, yes, but nervous. I felt butterflies, and my heart was pounding. I didn't feel calm, or relaxed or excited in the way of a peaceful feeling around him. It was the typical feeling I have had prior, with boys who excite me but who only turned into a game. We made small talk on the way back to my place, and it was enjoyable. But suddenly the feeling was different. I didn't want him the same way I wanted him before. Was it because I could tell now I had him? I honestly couldn't explain it, but knew the moment was coming.

"Maybe I will see you around?" I found myself saying, even shocking myself and completely breaking his eyes down on my lips now, ready to make a move.

I nodded, but didn't do anything else but look at him and smile. Finally getting the hint, he winked at me, shrugged and walked off. He didn't look back at me, and I was glad. Why wasn't I more interested in him? Not that it mattered, being that we were from entirely different countries. I laid down and tried to come to terms with what I was feeling. It was a very interesting and fun process doing such. Relaxing to the point of truly understanding what your body was telling you. It was a form of meditation that helped me reorganize, get clarity and come to intuitive realization of what I felt about a situation. And I knew what I felt: I wanted to be sitting under the Eiffel tower watching it sparkle... with someone else. I just didn't want to admit who that someone was.

I walked alone along the Seine. I loved this river, and its people along it. There were couples sitting on the edge, unpacked with their choice of cuisine for the night and coupling up. It was romantic. Everything everyone did, ate and saw in Paris somehow seemed romantic. It was a simple act of sitting on the edge of the water with wine, cheese and crackers, but with the view and atmosphere, it suddenly just became more... real? I suddenly wanted that too: to sit on the edge of the Seine river and drink some French wine and eat some French cheese with someone... but not just someone. And as if continuing the self torture of my day dream, I stumbled upon a bridge full of locks. Was that Paris, where the lock bridge was? I had completely forgotten, or it never crossed my mind, but there I was, staring at all of the locks with initials and hearts. And again, I suddenly wanted one too. I wasn't going to buy a lock, but I was tempted. What would it even say? L + ?. That's not sad at all, I thought and rolled my eyes. I walked slowly across it, eyeing and silently awing at them all. I could hardly even see the wire of which the locks were hanging on with how many there were.

I made my spot for the evening, just on the other side of the lock bridge on the steps leading down to the Seine. There I could watch couples walking along the Seine, sitting down for their date night or crossing the bridge of love with excitement as they simultaneously put the lock on the bridge. Maybe just the aura of all of the love would surround me, fill me up and swoon me into a bliss of undying love from someone. Or maybe just help me see that love is stupid. At this point, I wasn't even sure.

Oh, Paris. I would never forget it. A place with a 1:1 ratio of police to civilians on major event days and old men that look like they came straight from the Rolling Stones named Pascal. Paris, the city of well groomed men, from the white collar to the street cleaners, all put together and fit. Paris, where second hand smoke is non-negotiable and scooters whiz by, disregarding any societal rules of pedestrians walking. It was like walking among the frame of a canvas. The Seine river, though as green as the Riverwalk in San Antonio, Texas and busy as the Ohio, portrayed an alternate landscape within the city's limits. Paris, a city of outstanding beauty and skillful lifestyle. As I fell asleep, the sounds of the motor boats, chirps of single birds flying and ambulances flying down the small stone streets filled my ears, reforming my norm of what sounds I enjoyed, and which I detested.

europe
Like

About the Creator

Caroline

My name is Caroline and I am an avid reader, writer and dreamer. I write for fun and to express all the crazy thoughts in my head. I love sharing my stories and experiences with others!

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/caroline_1626

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.