Dear Paris,
Exactly a year ago to the day, I returned home from a French immersion trip with our high school’s two senior French classes and our three French teachers. I had already formed a connection with you, even before this trip—France was the first foreign country I ever visited, but the last time I had gone, I was too young to remember. I consider myself a New Yorker; I grew up here, and New York will always be my city. Still, although I have only visited you twice, you hold a special place in my heart.
You are a beautiful city in every sense of the word. I remember the day we climbed endless staircases to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and looked out over your skyline, the Eiffel Tower high above the rest of the city. As a hopeful engineer, your architecture encapsulates all the beauty that I might one day be able to create. Your artwork inspires me, too. Your museums are some of the best in the world, and because of the years of French I took in high school, I grew up reading the words of Hugo, Zola, and Saint-Exupéry.
Your reverence towards the arts can only be matched by your reverence towards food. Who would have thought that a meal as simple as sausage and butter on a baguette would be, to this day, one of the best sandwiches I have ever eaten? I have been waiting to find a pastry as wonderful as the pistachio eclair I bought in a little Parisian shop, but there is nothing in the United States that even compares.
There are certain memories and secrets contained in the streets of Paris, things that couldn’t happen anywhere but abroad—the time I stumbled into my junior year French teacher in a boutique and bought a dress that she tried on, but thought would suit me better; the time the boy who walked around with us in the Musée d’Orsay kissed my cheeks in front of my entire French class; the accordion player who serenaded us on the train ride to Versailles; and the small group of street musicians who prompted two of our French teachers to dance together.
You were hurting when I visited last February, recovering from Charlie Hebdo. You are hurting again now, recovering from another attack. But you will remain strong as you always have. You have a revolutionary spirit, and I believe in you.
I was in Bryant Park last summer, and I heard an accordion player performing for a small group of listeners. I sat and watched, probably for half an hour at least, because it brought me back to that train ride to Versailles. I wish I had kept some sort of journal when I was with you, a catalog of all the memories I would like to hold on to. But that is the nature of travel, I suppose—the traveler experiences so many extraordinary moments that she can’t hang on to all of them. For now, my photographs and memories will have to suffice.
Don’t worry, though. I’ll be back.
With love,
Sarah
