I just popped a bottle of Schlumberger Gold because I feel like many of my days this year will need to be filled with bubbles and a hint of nectarine.
And I’ve packed for Paris because I leave in hours, not days.
Okay, there’s more, but it all seems to surreal now. For two decades I said, to anyone who would listen, that I wanted to visit Paris. The more I traveled to other places, the more I wanted to see this city that seemed to be the one place that I couldn’t get to for some reason.
Three years ago I traveled to Paris without a plan. If I had thought about a plan, I wouldn’t have gone. I would have told myself I was insane. I didn’t speak French, I didn’t know anyone and I had never been to a foreign country without my employer being a buffer and helping me set an itinerary.
What happened was magic. I fell in love. I fell in love with a city and her people. But mostly, I fell in love with myself.
I had missed ‘The One’ so much on that trip and like a child, I had hoped that maybe, just for a few hours, I would have seen him. That wasn’t meant to be our story. Not then.
Tonight, on the eve of my third trip to Paris, I am amazed at who I am today versus who I was on that first trip. Paris still awes me. I don’t know how people there go to work with so much history and so much passion in the air. But maybe that isn’t mine to know. Maybe, for a girl from San Diego who had a dream of one day living in New York, then dared to dream just a little bit bigger, maybe Paris is just what I imagine she is: A home for those who, before finding her, wandered.