Paris, France

I lost count of the number of spiral, narrow steps I climbed. It’s been called Sacré-Cœur or as those who are less fortunate in their French understanding (like myself) know it as the Sacred Heart. It was New Year’s morning. Standing on the top balcony of a two-hundred year old cathedral, seemingly unbothered by the sharp cold breeze, taken solely by the view of a “tiny” city beneath me- Paris.

The past thirty plus hours consisted of a missed bus ride, spending New Year’s Eve in an empty airport, boarding a plane, hopelessly practicing my french pronunciation on a cab driver, and meeting my sister for the first time in months. A mostly successful day.

The early morning fog still filled the parisian streets. My eyes darted from the old, tall enchanting buildings to the people filling the walkways.

Our time flew by. I knew it would. I can flip through pages and pages of journal scribbles and sketches. Relive the extravagant dinners, live French Jazz band, times spent wandering crowded streets and desilite back roads. I was captivated by the art of French impressionists. I stood above Mona Lisa, walking the grounds of the Louvre. I sat under Eiffel’s shadow. Got lost in an enchanting village like graveyard, Pere Lachaise, where Oscar Wilde sleeps. I was allured into Notre Dame and became addicted to the stories ancient cathedrals told.

It was our last night. “I love that memory.” I wrote. “We took the second street right of Notre Dame. It was late but being drawn into the upstairs a small, idyllic Shakespeare bookshop, time wasn’t a thought. We later came to our senses and began walking back, Rebeca reached into the new bag of books and began to read an old French children’s story out loud. Life slowed. We took the long way back along the Seine River, laughing at the attempted accents and storytelling.” It was simple. It was comfortable. Maybe that’s why I love it.

And just like that, the morning came. Tickets were stamped, and missed hours of sleep caught up on the train ride through Belgium.