One year later, and it still happens all the time. I'll be at my desk. Or on the golf course. Or in a favorite watering hole. And the thought comes to me. "I can't believe I actually did it---I went to Paris!"
Then I close my eyes just a moment and let it all wash over me again. My lovely hotel. Liebling's places. Sitting where he sat at a long Benoit lunch while it poured outside. Going back to Benoit and doing it all over again. Reading in the Jardin du Palais Royal. The scent of food cooked on an open brazier in a small house. Laughing with waiters. Drinking Calvados. Sitting as long as I wanted in a cafe eating roasted duck, drinking wine and writing in my notebook as the elegants strolled by. The food. The WINE. Scarves. My friends at the Pledge Bar. Antiquities and Mona Lisa at The Louvre. Moderns at Pompidou Centre. Impressionists at L'Orangerie. The RAIN. The ladies. The food. The WINE. Wandering down the Champs Elysees. Meeting nice people at adjoining tables. Drinks at Harry's New York Bar. Drinks at the Ritz. Cheese courses. Wandering aimlessly for hours. Drinking strong coffee with milk out of huge cups. Riding the Bateauxbus to see the Eiffel Tower. Meeting another solo traveler from Kenya at the Champs du Mars and taking each other's photos. Eating crepes smeared with hazelnut cream sold from walk up stands. Eating snails. The little stalls of the bouquinistes selling books, trinkets and "naughty" post cards along the Seine. Personal tours of the Left Bank, Montmarte, and Versailles. Hot chocolate at Angelina. Fixing a shiny brass lock with the names of the Irish Redhead and The Future Rock Star written on it to the Pont Des Arts. The Café Beaux Arts. A girl and a pack of cigarettes. Taillevent, Taillevent, Taillevent.
I still can't believe it.
Here, at home, people have said more than once..."well, I guess you've got THAT out of your system now, right?" Paris doesn't work that way. For those of us who are prone to Great Loves, and who love such places, Paris is always inside. Deep. And, whether or not we are ever lucky enough to make the voyage, or ever lucky enough to return, Paris remains. Sparkling in the rainy evening light.
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