My mother informed me last night that she is going to Paris. "Wow," I said. "I wish I could be happy for you, but my overwhelming feeling of jealousy prevents that." OH PARIS. My Paris. Its hard to believe it exists when I am not there. Not in an ego-centric kind of way, but more in a "if a tree falls in a forest..."kind of way. If the bells of Notre Dame chime and I am not there to hear it, did it really happen?

In the winter of 2007, I went to Paris for a friend's wedding. The night before the wedding, the 10 or so of us had dinner at Pub St. Germain, then 4 of us girls, including the bride, walked to Ile St Louis for dessert (crepes, of course). As we walked past the Notre Dame cathedral (which, by the way, is one of my favorite French words - cat tay DRAL),the other girls were in front of me, and I can't say quite why, but I stopped for a second. I heard the bells of Notre Dame, I saw the moonlight twinkle on the lapping crests of the Seine, and a thought occured to me: THIS was why people love Paris. The cool crisp winter air, the gorgeous sound of the church bells chiming, all of it - I knew that for the rest of my life, any mention of Paris would bring this memory to mind. This would be my Paris.

So Mom, when you go, treat my Paris well.