I was dreaming of Montmartre this morning, and how peaceful it was to walk to work each morning.
Skipping down a staircase hugged by walls covered in art of all types, plants escaping their pots to cover their home, and the smell of croissants & pains au chocolat through the Boulangerie air vents.
Then sometimes stumbling down the pebbled road to the Metro, the city started to wake up. Neighbours in slippers walked their dogs sleepily, sun breaking through their dreamy state – the dogs were never so slow. Flip-flop, sweatshirt and short wearing Americans gushed over the old buildings and I watched them realise just how old this land is.
Then my favorites: the Parisians. They seem taller than us lowly Provincials, and their stance shows off confidence. They’re that group in high school everyone loved to hate: beautiful and oh so elegant.
They sip espresso while holding a hot Marlboro cigarette – with that little stick of mass destruction they embody our smoking girl Coco Chanel or even Jacques Brel.
It’s a beautiful little place.