A LOVE LETTER
Meet me in Paris, where we will kiss by the Cathedral of Notre Dame, while watching the fire dancers.
We will have no money, and will eat eight-dollar kebabs for dinner. We will walk by the Seine, and in the Latin Quarter, and of course we will buy pastries from Pierre Herme and savor them on the steps of St Sulpice.
Come with me to Paris, and I will show you the paintings; I will talk for hours on end about the light and the lines of her hands. Then you will fall asleep as we listen to Vivaldi in a church that resembles a jewel-box.
I will show you the Paris I have been telling you about - where you may see in the same scene: a riverside sunset 'twixt the arches of Pont Neuf, and a man peeing beneath the bridge with his junk on show. Let me show you also, those metro stations that could rival Dante's vision of hell, and those tree lined parks where tulips grow and you can buy a crepe slathered in Nutella. And we will conjecture: that maybe all this just adds to the fun of Paris. Or, maybe a selective memory is a lovely thing to have.
And I will apologize now, ahead of time, for the night when, famished and only a little stir-crazy, I get a bit huffy and make you walk for an hour, turning down every restaurant we come across because none is good enough. Yet, we will go back to that one that actually looked promising, and we will drink wine there and talk sweetly, and there will be a piano player with her husky voice that matches the wine we are drinking.
Meet me in Paris where we will buy a ring from Tiffanys. We will go to the real-life-Parisian, velvet cases, diamond-dust and sparkling-windows Tiffanys store. We will plonk our giant backpacks down on that shiny floor, looking to all the world like two ragamuffins, and we will buy the cheapest ring there is. Because that is the one I wanted.
So please darling, meet me in Paris, where we will begin our adventures.