I want to go back to Paris.

Why?

Because it’s Paris.

Duh.

Ok ok, so maybe you’ve never been (what is wrong with you?  I assume that you’ve been locked up your entire life and just released now and find yourself reading this.  Otherwise… well, there is no otherwise you crazy fool, just go already).

Or maybe you have been but all you can remember is how it burned a massive hole in your wallet… (€11 chocolate eclairs on the Champs-Elysee will do that but remember, you’re eating the most incredibly glamorous pastry of your life in the most romantically beautiful city.  Not even Mastercard can put a price on that.)

Or how incredibly rude and aggressive the waiter was… (“one meenooot, I am bizzee!  Why don’t choo peeess off you non-French-speaking ideeyot!” (or something to that effect).  To be fair, they are an incredibly superior human to the rest of the world given that they are, at the very least, French, and at the very best, Parisien (the “chosen” ones).  So who are you to complain?  Besides, what kind of a crazy fool doesn’t speak French, that sensual, luscious, most romantic of all languages?)

Or maybe you were unlucky and a crafty pick-pocket swiped your wallet in a crowded metro… (well, shit happens and there was probably nothing left in the charred remains of that fake Louis Vuitton anyway.  You should really get a grip, get a credit card and set that on fire too in either Gucci or Prada or any of the other fabulous and eye-wateringly expensive designer boutiques that line the exquisite Champs Elysee.)

Ah Paris… she’s that incredibly elegant lady with the enormous Chanel sunglasses, sipping an espresso, a long thin cigarette dangling from her other hand; exquisitely, effortlessly glamorous, oozing style and confidence like the rest of us ooze sweat; she’s proud and aloof but then she turns on the charm and we just melt.

She’s not always nice, but we adore her anyway.

She’s Paris.

Ciao darlings!

Lizzie xxx