Vintage Wrangler jeans
Photo diary from my Paris trip even though I am currently on a trip to Puerto Rico!
“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”
– Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
I think that in a way, Hemingway was absolutely right. I’ve never lived in Paris, and I’m not sure that I ever will, but I know that the memories that I have made there will stick with me forever. For me the artistry that goes into the physical beauty of the city is so mind-blowing, it’s impossible to not appreciate it and be marked by its existence. The curves of the architecture that have caught my breathe around every Parisian street corner will repaint themselves over and over again in my sleep at night. The narrow sidewalks that make every block seem more delicate, and that cause my steps to quicken to keep from sideswiping passerby going in the opposite direction. The consistently flat and leveled rooftops that look like a magical kingdom all of its own. That from above and afar, it feels as if you can reach out and gently lay your hand upon their surfaces and just keep it there forever. Protecting it.
There is so much about Paris that I find myself nodding a loud yes at. And although there do exist those French people who severely dislike Americans straight off the bat, I am never one to take stereotypes seriously. We actually met some quite spectacular French human beings whom I want to steal from their country and take back to NYC with me so I can hang with them on the daily. I am paying respect to the lifestyle that includes sipping coffee and actually enjoying the smell and taste of it, as opposed to injecting ourselves with what feels like a superhuman chemical we need just for the sake to feel borderline okay with our lives. The effortless put-togetherness only the French have mastered keeps me mind boggled and totally in awe as I try to do the same as they do. Untidy hair that feels natural and sexy and nonchalant. The endless diet of bread, fruits, cheese, meat and wine. The way that “love” sounds in French and when spoken with total truth. All I can say is that I am no longer tainted by the experience of having a French man for a boss.
I will never call you home Paris, but I sure as heck will always love the way I feel when I walk your streets, eat your food and attempt to speak your language. These photos were taken in our favorite part of the city, Montmarte. Where ex-patriots like Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway escaped to pursue their art. How fucking romantic and brave. We walked up to the Sacre Couer, which I think is now part of our Paris tradition. This is where I envisioned the hand upon the rooftops image in my head. My mind has been in the clouds ever since.