"Help me, I think I am falling in love again." those famous words of Joni Mitchell. She fell in love with many a person, a habit that may be known as good or bad. I think that perhaps love is the best addiction, as long as it's not inappropriate infatuation.
I fell in love, not with a person, but with a place. Paris, the cliché of places to fall in love with, swept me off my feet and passed me on to the idea that you needed a coat to go anywhere; and a Beret too. I couldn't help but look at the gleaming, rain-soaked cobblestone streets, a clamorous sound occasionally aroused by a car horn. Swearing with passion, eating with taste, writing for freedom, laughing when no one would. The French are me, and I am French. Half of me is fire, while the other can be a frying-pan. That is to say half of me is French, while the other is taste and a certain fashion. Don't be afraid to love whatever you positively believe. I personally can't live without books and travel, as long as they are there, I am content. I don't even have to read, just to know that Huckleberry Finn is here with me in my venturing is a comfort.
I can just see myself opening the French doors on the top floor of a vintage fleabag hotel. Leaning over the railing, I breathe in the freshly rain-permeated air, a morsel of champagne still lingering from last night's restaurant adventure even though I had brushed my teeth (that's for you, Mom). A sky-blue silk robe rests over my shoulders; honey, oranges and toast await me. Pigeons flock below as an old woman reaches out with baguette crumbs, her arms shaking. Her smile lingers.
A Vogue model walks past in her red musketeer hat and fishnet face, a red dot from above. Her cherubic face focused forward as all of the French boys on bicycles nearly dent a car gawking at her Athenaesque face and wisdom wafts past them on French perfume. Her poppy-red lipstick smiles "You can't have me. I'm taken." What else can I see? Ah, yes. The Eiffel Tower shines as the early sun rises past the blue roofs and beige windowsills. A venerable woman shakes rugs out the windows, letting dust sail. The Louvre has Picasso hanging and Le Arche De Triumph frowns for every traffic jam and looms over as if to taunt the sun with its pride. A man walks past in his beige sports coat, a newspaper wedged under his arm. He goes into a flower shop, and comes back out now obtaining a bunch of lavender and roses. Who could it be for? Where could he be going?