The last time I saw Paris

It's days like this that I want to escape to Paris.

I'd wake up and get myself ready for the day. I'd wear a cherry dress and espadrilles, my hair would have a wave to it. It would be effortless. I'd take my journal and have breakfast at Deux Magots. I'd write poems, I'd draw, I'd absorb the energy of all the great minds that had sat there before me. I'd then walk down Boulevard Saint Germain and up to Rue Du Bac, make my way to Rue Bonaparte and eventually find Laduree. There, in my best rehearsed French, I'd order 20 macaroons. They would be handed to me in a beautiful box that I'd be too afraid to open.

I would then walk along the back streets of the Latin Quarter taking photos. I'd see beautiful produce, well placed shop displays, interesting smiles. I'd stop for late lunch somewhere along the Seine and have tuna nicoise salad. I'd read Anais Nin, hilight my favourite phrases, think about writing.

I'd make my way back to my apartment, baguette in arm, for an afternoon nap. As I'd fall asleep, there'd be the lull of French I barely understand on the streets, and the faint sound of a gypsy band making their way to the metro.

I'd awake as it turned dark find myself at Vanguarde for dinner. I'd be ushered to my table by cheeky waiters who'd make small talk as they offered me a drink. I'd have an onion soup starter, pear and duck for main and chestnut puree for dessert. I'd be content.

After a slow stroll back to my home, I'd make myself a cup of tea and take delight in openning the Laduree box. I'd open the french doors onto my balcony and perch with guitar, tea and macaroons in hand. I'd sing to Paris, to anyone who'd want to hear. I'd sing everything I knew and I'd end with the slow songs. I'd say goodnight to my city, and fall into bed, cuddled by crisp white sheets and a fluffy doona.

I can only dream of Paris.

Photography by me