by Wendy
Dreamy Paris. City of love and lights, destination for artists and philosophers, historical backdrop for world events, setting of literature and films, longtime muse for creators and students and romantics and travelers. Even when you are walking alone, all your Paris references keep you company.

You’re constantly reminded of cultural icons and scenes as you observe the constancy of the river, the ancient churches, the elegant buildings, the beauty of the city. I usually dwell on the writers, imagining them sitting at outdoor cafe tables arguing and analyzing and reworking their drafts. There’s Victor-Hugo and Marcel Proust and Simone de Beauvoir and Albert Camus and Ernest Hemingway and James Baldwin and George Orwell and Anais Nin and Henry Miller and the countless others both French and expatriates who have called Paris home. Sensing the layers of history and personalities who linger and influence can feel like a spell in this city. You almost expect the Fitzgeralds to pull up in a car and invite you to a party, like the movie Midnight in Paris.

But like the movie, there is so much magic in the present. My head was in the clouds walking around on a beautiful spring day but I missed my travel companions. I knew they were rightly captivated by The Louvre, and I wanted to hear their stories from an afternoon spent there. As I approached the museum I stopped in the wide square to text that I was going to wander back toward our hotel and have a drink in a cafe. As I looked up from my phone, there is my sister, brother-in-law and niece crossing the street up ahead. I ran to catch up with my darling family, in the middle of a Paris moment so memorable in its perfect, simple synchronicity.