Letters to the Cities: Paris

Dear Paris,

You didn’t greet me with the Eiffel Tower or the Seine. You greeted me in your metros — crowded, breathless, and alive. Milan had shown me trains of discipline, doors opening and closing with order. But you, Paris, were a race. People pushed before the train even stopped, rushing to a seat as if it were the last. Your carriages rattled with age, yet inside them sat elegance itself — women dressed in their best, men in sharp suits, youth in careless chic. I stood in my oversized tee and luggage, feeling like an outsider, but in awe that you wore fashion so effortlessly.

Your streets then softened me. Place Vendôme whispered quiet grandeur, lined with boutiques and cafés where confidence itself seemed to sit. Fragonard filled my senses with roses and amber, history told in bottles. On the way back, you revealed the Palais Garnier, a little wink of your charm, as if reminding me you’ve always been the stage for stories. That night, I closed my eyes with your perfume still clinging to memory.

The next morning, you fed me croissants so soft they vanished in seconds, and hot chocolate that melted like velvet. It was your way of preparing me for grandeur — the Petit Palais. There, you introduced me to Charles Frederick Worth, the father of haute couture. Through you, I saw gowns, tools, and stories that built the very word “fashion.” I didn’t take photos — I was too lost in you.

But you also tested me, Paris. I lost myself in your streets, my phone dying, my friend without internet, both of us wandering hungry and tired. Yet, even in confusion, you led us near the Eiffel Tower. Out of breath, aching, we laughed until it hurt. Outside Dior, I smiled like a child at candy. And then, you gave me Galerie Dior — your masterpiece, your cathedral of fashion. Every corner, every light, every wall whispered magic. My exhaustion disappeared. For a moment, you made me forget everything but wonder.

That night, I returned to the hotel, soaking tired legs in hot water while your hum continued outside. You had drained me, but in the sweetest way.

The most beautiful entrance

Where we got lost

My kind of Disneyland

Paris, you are demanding and dazzling, messy yet magnificent. A dream, but one with a pulse. I understand your hype now — you live up to it. I didn’t see half of what I wanted, which only means I must return. Next time, not rushed, not hurried, but ready to linger.

Until then, Paris — keep your lights burning. I’ll come back to watch them glow.

Coffee of the Day

Salted Caramel Frappé – sweet, salty, indulgent, and unpredictable. Paris, you were just like that: a rush of chaos and comfort, contradictions that somehow tasted perfect together.

~ The Stressed Potato