I’m watching the Eiffel Tower glowing with sparkles of silver stars. It is the choreography of lights, a classical composition akin to that of Claude Debussy, a fragrance of Eau de Parfum, a miracle. Those lights are making unforgettable love to my eyes. I don’t want them to stop. I soak that energy into my soul. This is close to immaculacy.
My eyes create a well between their lids. I can’t blink because if I do, a stream will run down my cheeks. Yeah, I’m that kind of guy. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I like it that way. That’s probably why my heart can’t be broken. The closest possibility is for it to be torn.
A torn heart can be sewn back together with a thread and needle or fixed with patches of cloth. But a broken heart? That one is shattered, wrecked into hundreds of bits. It’ll take an experienced potter or a glazier to repair it. That’s only if they can.
I’m in Paris, the city of love. Heartbreaks and heart tears aren’t part of the vocabulary of this moment I’m in.
It sucks that I’m not holding anyone’s hand. My arms aren’t around anyone’s waist. They aren’t on anyone’s shoulders either. My palms are holding a phone, my phone, taking pictures and recording a video. But these don’t come out well because of my weak phone camera. How am I supposed to remember Paris? Nathallia.
Nathallia is Brazilian. I met her in Cologne. We were both heading to Paris. She took brilliant pictures of me, capturing the best possible memories I could get. I took awful pictures of her. I’d either get the lighting wrong or cut the top of a backdrop or I’d tilt the camera. I struggled to take her pictures. Whereas she captured a great picture in one or two taps on the screen, I’d have to shoot about ten photos to get a pic that she liked just a little. I couldn’t match her level of perfection in photography. So I settled with what I could manage. If my photography skills were meant to be a passage way into her heart, then I failed terribly.
Paris is an experience. It is a convergence of energies, the meeting point of art and history, music and stories, cuddles and smiles. It is exquisite cuisine. Your palates will never forget how it made them feel. Alive! This city is lovebirds holding hands. It is sprays of fine droplets of water from a fountain landing on your skin, calming your nerves and clearing your airwaves the way Wrigleys Airwaves chewing gum does.
Whether you eat chocolate or caramel flavored Crepes at Le Cap Breton or you buy freshly made chocolates from Edwart Chocolataire, whether you go to sit at Jardin du Luxembourg or Jadin des Tuileries, whether you see The Mona Lisa at Musee du Louvre or you go to Musee de l’Armes or you stand under the Arc de Triomphe, you’ll live through the same sexiness of Paris.
The city is an exuberance of abundance. Buildings with gold, a never ending glow, the infinity loop of awe inspiring views. That’s Paris. It draws you in to its soul with its magnetic tentacles and captivates you.
Ernest Hemingway was right. “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.”
Even if you’ve spent only a few hours in Paris, it’ll leave a lasting tatoo on you. If you don’t remember it for its stunning views and rich history, then the pickpockets and hundreds of jaywalkers will stick with you like the Pussycat Dolls.
