Be Happy

Quelle belle langue, la pluie.

And as my first week in Paris passes, I find myself falling into habit.

Oh, how I desire to write completely in French - the language itself is more like poetry than anything I've created. Though there is something nostalgic about my mother tongue. Something undefinably comforting, like a secret between friends. And I have come to realize that speaking English in Paris does not desecrate the city's history, but rather enhances the dimensions in which this city exists.

I am living in a place where people cross cultures to interact with each other, going so far as to learn new vocabulary and grammar rules. The only reason English-speakers are ever looked down on here is due to their refusal to blend and accept other cultures.

This city shelters truly the most civilized people, not because of their dress, their mannerisms or their jobs, but because of their ability to take part in another culture without losing touch with their own.

Certainly America is a melting-pot, but with a recipe that turns out the same thing time and again. Paris is like a fromagerie - with all kinds of exotic cheeses to choose from, each with its own unique flavor, but all with a common thread.