On my 24th birthday my ex-boyfriend bought me a package of journals with an insciption that mentioned my apparent ability to write intelligent and beautiful things. I have, since, written many an intelligent and beautiful thing (I think). However, so that it be made clear: there is no chance of beautiful or intelligent things ending up in this blog.

It is Sunday night. Paris is absolutely, extraordinarily gorgeous at this time. There is a reason for why so many romantic pieces have been written about Paris during springtime. It is very much the epitome of beauty and renaissance and joie-de-vivre. The crocuses are blooming, my tulips are sprouting, and couples who kiss like the French seem to be happily cluttering every street corner. It is not a time to be single, it is a time to fall in love.

And each April-May I do so without fail. But more than that (and much more importantly) each time I experience the luxury that is Paris In
Springtime I fall in love with life.

And it is a wonderful feeling.