150 Days Since Paris

I really have no explanation as to why I've been paralyzed from finishing my thoughts on Paris. It was amazing. Maybe I'm afraid that it's gone beyond my grasp. Maybe it's a secret; a dirty secret; a filthy, scratch your back in a dark alleyway secret.

Each time I've set foot in this city I have this feeling that it is where I belong. I know it's a crush; infatuation. But, as I sip Beaujolais from some vintage year that isn't actually all that impressive (as if I would even know) and struggle to hack out the French "R's" in every word I try to voice (remembering the smile on Margot's face when I actually pronounced her name correctly) I am nothing but transfixed and inebriated with my own passion for this place. Even now, 150 days later I am still descending the stairs from the picturesque Montmartre to the seedy red-light district and into the red, glowing bowels of a darkened absinthe bar with peeling wall paper. Elated.