Paris, the city of lights, love, and amazing cheese. No really, their cheese is probably the most amazing thing I've ever put my mouth on. Seriously, I'm all about cheese.
But again, I get off topic. Paris was where friendships were cemented, nudity was flaunted on my part, and love happened in the most romantic of ways thus making it impossible for me to ever fall in love ever again.
Seriously, it was amazing, and beautiful and I will forever hate the fact that it didn't work just because the story is as fantastic as it is.
But I was just reminded by my dear friend that "It was Paris. And London. It was ripe for falling in love. You cannot blame yourself for that one."
The story goes like this (I apologize in advance for how pretentious and spoiled and snooty this sounds):
A group of us from the class decided to go on a weekend trip to Paris. I think there were nine of us all together. But two of the girls only met up with us once and then kinda evaporated. Anyway, one of the evenings we decided to go to the Sacre Couer and drink a bottle of wine because WHO THE FUCK WOULDN'T?
Well we sat on the steps, and then got to watch a rainstorm cloud over the city, and then it became a lightning storm. It was truly one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life. And then there was a boy. A tall, dark haired, cute boy, who had somehow made me feel smiley and giggling for the first time since I had been sixteen.
At the time I thought this boy was smart, and funny, and just wonderful. Looking back I was an idiot and blinded by lights coming off of the Eiffel Tower. But again, it was Paris, and The Sacre Couer, and there was wine. Lots of wine.
But it was Paris, we were (and still are) young, there was a storm, dim lights, and city streets littered with the past. It would have been a crime if I didn't fall in love.
We left the Sacre Couer because there seemed to be a threat of being drenched, and I can tell you from experience that being drenched and trying to find your way home in a foreign country is about as fun as stepping on a nail. We ended up in a couple of pubs, thus discovering that I could not just easily sip on what I was lead to believe was a rum and sprite. (it was pretty much straight rum and I died a little on the inside.) Our little group managed to shrink in size throughout that night until there was only five of us left by the time we left the last pub we stopped in.
And of course by that time it was pouring, we were no where near our hotel, and the metro was closed for the night.
But there was nothing more exciting then running down a cobble stone street, getting soaked by a warm summer's rain, lightning forks illuminating the sky, all next to a boy that made my heart beat just a little bit faster. And when he took my hand and guided to hide under a awning, the minute I looked into his eyes there was no way I could have stopped it. I fell in love. And lightning flashed, probably, and I felt giddy and excited and all of those cliches you hear.
There wasn't any kissing or any thing of that sort, nothing but a gentle graze of a hand on my arm.
In the end he was kinda a dick, and not nearly as amazing as I had made him out to be in that moment. But at least for a time, I was in love and it was magical.
I hate sappy shit as much as the next girl, but I think I may or may not have really high standards when it comes to falling in love now. I seriously hope the next dude can top that, because I would really appreciate it.
The moral of this segway: Love sucks. And Paris is nothing more than beautiful lies.
and wine and cheese.
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