An American in Paris.

We were camped outside the Brasserie de I'Isle Saint-Louis in Paris. It was one of those days when every cell in your body just begs to bask in the warmth of the sun all afternoon-- the rays of light irresistibly intoxicating after winter's dark and dismal grey. We were enjoying an assortment of greens doused in a mustard vinaigrette that made you want to lick the plate for fear of wasting a drop and I found myself wishing my French was good enough to ask the waiter how to replicate the emulsion. (Though I'm sure my query would surely have been met with nothing more than a furrowed brow and a disapproving scoff.) An accordionist was leaning against the bridge just across the way, looking out over the Seine towards Notre Dame, and filling the streets with his deep and beautiful baritone. It was one of those moments that I wish I could have bottled up-- forever locking away the sights, smells, sounds, and feel of it all-- for it was as close to a feeling of perfection as I've encountered in a long while. Life felt good. And rich. And whole.

We only had a matter of hours in Paris before boarding our flights back to the East Coast, but it was a wonderful few hours nonetheless. While it's wishful thinking at its very best, I can only hope that another, longer trip back is in my near future. I'm already yearning for more.