It's been a love story, mostly. Me & Paris. Some of my most beautiful memories -- as well as a tragedy or two -- lie in this city.
Growing up, my father lived in Paris for eight years, as he was working for this man. I came for Spring vacations, I went to Summer programs at the Sorbonne, and I took my year abroad at Science Po.
My father live in a windmill in the 18th arrondissement in Paris. This was atypical, of course, but then again so was my father. A professorial humanitarian, he was completely dedicated to social justice and helping the world's poor. He was (and is) color blind and was stunned when I told him that the suede loafers that he wore around Paris with suits and jeans alike were hot pink. But it didn't matter - Paris was filled with eccentrics, after all.
But although my father first introduced me to Paris, I soon made it my own. I would come and go often. I had a French boyfriend for four years -- a man who was prettier than myself with a beautiful wardrobe. He styled me until I looked completely different, until I looked like a French girl. He wrote me poetry and lavished me with compliments. It was no surprise that I loved him, loved him very much. Then he cheated on me with one of my friends. And then he cheated on me with another of my friends. Only then, sadly so sadly, I left him. And I left Paris, too.