For some reason, I’ve avoided Paris since I was twenty-four, a trip punctuated by my peeing the hotel’s feather bed after a night of too many beers. This time, though, couldn’t have been more different and without any urinary mishaps. The past three days captured the light and the love this city always promised.
While I don’t know a lick of French and sometimes stumble into rudimentary Spanish as a default, the people have been nothing but gracious, some even finding my Americaness exotic. And I found romance.Some think that romance needs to lead to a destination, but it can also be that inexplicable connection for a moment or if lucky, a few days. And the afterglow can provide a lifetime of memories, a smile every time one of those images flash by.
I will remember us walking down the street toward a protest, excited to see Liberte on signs, the flags of France waving, playful music and our moment of horror when we realized we were suddenly in the middle of an anti-vax march as we hurriedly put on our masks. Or getting involved in a ridiculous arm-wrestling match at a bear bar when I turned to him as I struggled to keep my arm tightened against my opponent and told him to kiss me, our first kiss. Or holding each other tightly under the Eiffel Tower in a Parisian downpour, locked in bliss as if we were the only ones there.Romance can be fleeting and joyous, especially in Paris.
