Paris is

Paris is a city that smells of chic dust, rare trees and fresh baguette. Whiffs of the underground’s digestive system are sometimes burped back to the surface, skimming up the dirty stairs of the many stations into your streets, meddling with your expensive perfumes.

Paris is a city that sticks to your hands and shoes. The sugar beads of your morning patisserie, the other commuter’s sweat on the pole you hold yourself onto and the violet ink of your newspaper will remain on your palms. The hobo’s night toilet was your hallway and it sticks to your feet, the romantic paved streets they break your heels and the underground running beneath you and the road work next to you they  increase the quivering of your pace as you slalom your way through the crowd.

Paris is a city your eyes can’t get enough of. The grandiose white monuments and their slate roofs is the background of your day-dreaming fantasies while the Seine aloofly and invitingly blocks your way so that you cross over on its jewel-bridges and admire her even more. The shapely city skyline draws the curves of a city desired by many and owned by few.

Paris is a city bustling with sounds. The aggressive horns of angry drivers will cover a bird’s brief twitter, waiters’ change tinkles in their apron’s front pocket, café cups are dropped and their porcelain thud ripples on the bar marble. Women’s heels clank, scooters roar and buses’ bells jingle.

Paris is a city who tastes of love, bread and cheese and the bitterness of loneliness. It’s a city whose promises of eternal beauty sweetens you up then gulps your down and spits you back. A city for romantic, lunatic and artistic souls in the quest of a scornful but handsome lover, a city for the thrill of her experience and the occasional rush of emotions when walking her streets. Paris is a city who gives herself to many but gives away nothing until the very last minutes, when she thinks she might lose you.


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