Last night I was hopelessly, madly in love with this city. Blame it on the wine, blame it on the exquisite specimen of a husband sitting next to me, blame it on the heady fumes of escargot-duck-tarte tatin trailing us from dinner. But last night as our taxi whizzed through the grand streets of Paris, the Seine and Eiffel and all the gorgeous old imposing buildings lit up like some fairy-tale movie set, I couldn’t help but stare out the window with love-sick googley eyes. As if on cue with every turn, a symphony soared forth from the radio and my heart soared ahead right with it. If I could have found the will to roll down the windows I would have shouted at the top of my lungs “DEAR GOD I LOVE THIS PLACE!”
But instead we sat spellbound. Only when we slowed to a halt in front of our building could Husband muster a few dreamy words to our cabbie. “J’adore votre musique monsieur.” “Mais oui, c’est Brahms!” he replied. Of course, it’s Brahms! With goofy smiles plastered to our faces we meandered our way inside and fell asleep, punch-drunk from our cab ride tryst with the City of Lights.
Then today we went to the Louvre. With, oh, about 1 million of our best tourist friends from around the globe and I’m sure several hundred lurking pick-pockets just for kicks. We couldn’t even bear the line to get in. Annoyance boiled in my veins. All I could hear was the sad trombone music playing in my head. I was done with this place.
Ah, the heart is a fickle thing indeed.