Paris, je t'aime.

Okay, I'm sorry, but this is just trop ridicule.

I am in Paris, on my laptop in a picturesque bedroom surrounded by polished hardwood floors, a traditional wardrobe, and fold-out secretary. At one end of the room there is an extra-long beautifully paneled white window which I have left open. A slight, pleasant breeze carries with it a classical tune on the piano and the magnified clinking of plates and silverware.

It would seem that Parisian restaurants epitomize the French experience, and, somehow, that essence has wafted my way as a much-needed reminder of the welcoming beauty of the city in which I have taken up residence. "C'est belle, la vie" the streets sing, as the piano trills.

And I have somehow garnered the opportunity to experience this story-like life.

Strangely, it seems to fit right in like a missing bone I never knew I needed to walk. And I find it all the more sorrowful because it is not a fairytale, it is not make-believe. Like every city I've visited, it is real, but this is Paris. And I can't get enough of it.