In Paris

Looking in Paris in this light, I was reminded that I should be feeling In Love. I had heard and read how beautiful the city was, this City of Lights, and I had seen the pictures of people kissing by the Eiffel Tower and holding hands as they meandered down side streets filled with vendors. But I just wasn't feeling it.

Oh, I loved the city. I knew that as soon as I stepped off the plane in my jet-lagged haze that I loved the city. I had studied French and French culture since I had been in middle school, all the way through college, and I had finally made my way the city I had spent years dreaming about. I, too, would sit in a cafe drinking coffee, maybe smoking a cigarette, discussing the works of Voltaire and Camus.

Instead, I was walking through the streets of a city I had fallen in love with before I even got there with a man I had fallen out of love with before the relationship had even gotten started. Yes, we sat in the cafe and had Meaningful Discussions, but while we talked about existentialism and Impressionism, we ignored the fact that this wasn't going anywhere.