On La Vie En Rose.

It was after we had said goodbye to the sleepy town of Versaille, been beaten (quite literally, as the case may be) by the Paris metro, and navigated though the dark alleys of Monmarte that we found ourselves sitting on our first afternoon in Paris at a little sidewalk cafe, which I (diligent food-sleuth that I am) had found out about online, devouring this delicious monstrousity:

I assure you... this giangantic pile of goldeny goodness was just as heavenly as it looks. ...I swear I'm not gloating. Anyway, it was somewhere around there that I decided that I'm pretty sure I'll live here eventually. Somewhere between bites of those lovely potatos Paris nestled itself in alongside Barcelona, Bath, Hong Kong and San Miguel De Agende as somewhere I could spend my life falling in love with. And no, I'm pretty certain that's not just the pototatos talking. I could learn this langauge, this culture, this rythme of life... I could make a life for myself here. I love this language. I love the sing-song of it. I love that every word lilts and twirls. It is nothing but a dance, I think. It pirauettes and spins and twirls off of your tongue... it leaps out in grand arches and formal patterns, it trills and dips with grand and graceful dignity. This language is on my tongue. I'm convinced that there are certain languages which you're born sort of pre-desposed to be able to learn, should you ever attempt it. German, for example, is one I'm pretty darn sure I'm just never going to be able to swing. We decided over our potatos that day that French is to my mom what German is to me (read: death), and also in the same breath I knew... I will learn this, someday. It's on my tongue, waiting to come out. In a way, the whole city felt like that for me. Every corner and every cafe and every creperie and every bridge... oh the bridges... each new discovery nestled itself further down into my heart until I thought I would burst with the certainty that someday I will be a part of this place. The whole culture is in my heart, waiting to be learned. Not now, but someday. (I apologize again for the head arobics I'm about to inflict on you, but do enjoy the pics.)

This is the price we pay for cute shoes on cobblestones... our morning bandaging ritual is fit for Afganastan, not the Left Bank. And yet for some reason we battle on with our blisters, and I assure you we look darn cute doin' it.