Last night I dreamt I was in Paris. Or, I should say, back in Paris. I went in January, on a whim, for a mere 85 hours, to my delightful surprise, and to that of the man who is now semi-lovingly known (within a discrete social circle) simply as "Paris Boy." (Ominous foreshadowing?) During the long (and very expensive) taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle to Arrondissement 4, through industrial zones and patches of eerie fog (a phenomenon seemingly unique to European roads) I gazed, with heavy eyelids at the European glory passing by the slightly tinted glass of the plush backseat. "Ahh, gay Paree," I thought. I never want to leave. But if I'm to make it through the day, I either need a serious power nap, or a shot of tequilla with my french pastry. (The latter seemed both impossible and impractical, being that it was 7:30 am).
The magic of flying on a plane for hours, (WHY did they have to show Jerry McGuire? Are there no other movies in the cargo bay?) across a wide expanse of ocean known simply as "The Pond" by my Dutch friends, made me feel as if all my problems had been left in the diesel-coated dust on the banks of the Hudson River. . and so I dozed. After all, Paris Boy knew where to go.
Thirty euros later, the taxi neared the outskirts of the city. I awoke to the churn of a glorious morning in Paris. Cobblestone streets and fabulous shoes, funny little cars with bad paint jobs, architecture straight out of textbooks (was that just Napoleon who waved at me? Mon dieu, I'm tired), narrow roads that twist and expel traffic straight into imperial opera houses and splendid hotels, silky foie gras that melts in your mouth and luxurious bakeries that beckon even the most anti-carb dieters, tabac shops filled with real foreigners who don't speak a lick of English, the Metro with its ingenious silent rubber tires, perfect cafe au lait (au yes), and that sweet sweet smell of far away Europe; the stepping stone to problem-free life.
*Sigh* I must go back. Opportunity awaits, perhaps in the form of a fresh croissant.
The magic of flying on a plane for hours, (WHY did they have to show Jerry McGuire? Are there no other movies in the cargo bay?) across a wide expanse of ocean known simply as "The Pond" by my Dutch friends, made me feel as if all my problems had been left in the diesel-coated dust on the banks of the Hudson River. . and so I dozed. After all, Paris Boy knew where to go.
Thirty euros later, the taxi neared the outskirts of the city. I awoke to the churn of a glorious morning in Paris. Cobblestone streets and fabulous shoes, funny little cars with bad paint jobs, architecture straight out of textbooks (was that just Napoleon who waved at me? Mon dieu, I'm tired), narrow roads that twist and expel traffic straight into imperial opera houses and splendid hotels, silky foie gras that melts in your mouth and luxurious bakeries that beckon even the most anti-carb dieters, tabac shops filled with real foreigners who don't speak a lick of English, the Metro with its ingenious silent rubber tires, perfect cafe au lait (au yes), and that sweet sweet smell of far away Europe; the stepping stone to problem-free life.
*Sigh* I must go back. Opportunity awaits, perhaps in the form of a fresh croissant.
No comments:
Post a Comment