paris in sepia

I am back from the city of lights.

Balls.

Flew on that double decker massive Air France airbus. One wonders how the dickens it gets into the sky. And yet it was the smoothest long distance flight I’ve ever experienced.

You hardly feel it even touch the runway, it’s like, ‘I say, did a bird fly into the turbines? Oh wait, we’re on par with a house in Jet Park.’

So, Paris.

Paris reminds me of Buenos Aires. An upmarket version of its South American sister if you will. The architecture is the same, as are the big boulevards and tiny cobbled streets.

I don’t know which is more romantic, Paris or Rome. I was working on this trip, and although my Brit was around, both cities go hand in hand on the romance. Maybe a touch more fountains and moving water in Rome.

Café culture. All the chairs face outwards onto the street so that you can people watch. And you wanna people watch. Between the poodles, fashion that you drool over, every third person wearing a variation of stripes, and people snogging each other.

Or old French men in seersucker jackets.

The French eat a lot of veal. Never noticed this before. Usually the world focuses on the whole snail and frog leg thing. Baby cows not so much.
The French had an obligatory strike on Saturday. Over pension funds. The gendarmarie, fire brigade, the whole armed forces were out and traffic stopped. It isn’t a cliché; it’s what they do.

People aren’t that unfriendly there. Granted, I spoke French most of the time.

I love my Brit. And I can’t wait to be with him again soon.