To the city of lights,

Mon chère, I am heartbroken at the pain and grief you’ve endured in these past few days, but I wanted to tell you a story: a reminder of how special and important you are to so many people, but specifically, a few certain people.

Several decades ago, you were in the midst of another tragedy: the worst war the world had ever seen. Because of that war, there was a young man, a soldier walking on your ancient streets. He was definitely not the first or last young dreamer to grace your presence, but he is important, at least to this story. He saw you at one of your darkest times, and was still blown away by your brilliance. He wandered your streets, took several photographs, and wondered to himself if Hitler would end up having a tomb as grand as Napoleon (now you and I both know he does not).

You had several people in your midst during that time. Another important one was a young woman, an army nurse from the US. No, she did not meet the young man then, though she would in a few decades. After VE day, she witnessed you and your people coming to life after years of fear and darkness. You made it through then, and you shall make it through now. The Allies were celebrating, and the young woman celebrated in her own way. She visited the Louvre—she was admitted for free because of her military status. She saw one of your most prized possessions, Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, being taken out of hiding and resorted to its proper place in the museum. It sat on an easel a hair’s breadth away from the young woman. She considered giving the old girl a pat, but she knew how important that piece of art is to you, so she held back.

Both the man and woman returned home after the war, and lived their own lives in the US. About 30 years later, another young man, the son of the soldier, came to your city, and made it a home. This young man wasn’t there for a war, or any other fantastical romantic reason; he went for his job: working behind a desk for an airline. It did not take long for him to fall in love with you, Paris. During his time as one of your own, he learned your streets and Metro map by heart, he became a fantastic cook, and he played piano so much, he had to pointedly refuse his neighbor when she begged him to teach her children music.

This young man’s family visited him several times (mostly for the sake of seeing you, I think), including one of his older brothers. His brother came to you feeling a little lost; I don’t think he was the first idealist to do so. And while he was there, in the midst of your magic, he felt less lost, more sure. He was inspired by your brilliance and beauty, and when he left, he vowed to return. And so he did a few short years later on his honeymoon with his new wife.

I don’t know if you know this, mon chère, but his wife = the daughter of the WWII nurse. It is indeed a small world, and you, dear Paris, are mightily skilled at bringing people together. So these young lovers enjoyed your lights, food, and culture as only young lovers can, and each blew them away. They explored, wandered, and enjoyed all they could before they had to return home. Years later, when they had children and those children could understand, the couple told them stories about your magnificence, and those kids vowed to themselves that they would get to see you in all your glory one day.

Sure enough, when both children were old enough, they each had their own journeys that led them to you. First, the oldest sibling: He celebrated Easter with you one fine spring, and it’s a visit he will never forget. When he first rode into Paris late one night, he saw the lights on your Eiffel Tower and became teary-eyed. He had several misadventures in your streets, but his heart was so full of Parisian love that when he shared his stories with his little sister, her jealousy and wanderlust grew and grew until she absolutely had to have an adventure of her own.

Venture she did, and her travels brought her to you, if only for a brief three days. Her first few hours with you were spent wandering lost in Metro station after Metro station, but, eventually, she emerged from the tunnels and found herself standing in front of the Louvre Museum, where her grandmother (who had passed away months before) had stood sixty years previously. Much like her grandmother, that young woman fell madly for you, Paris, for your lights, your art, and especially your food (the view from the Arc de Triomphe didn’t hurt either). You know very well, mon amour, that the young woman is me.

That Memorial Day Weekend was nearly five months ago, which does not sound terribly long to an ancient city like you, but to me, it feels like an incredibly long time. I’ll never forget wandering through your streets, meeting your incredibly kind people, and seeing the Eiffel Tower light up at night. You are a place full of majesty and magic.

My heart breaks for you, and I am sorry that I can offer nothing but my sympathy, prayers, love, and stories. But I could do one more thing: remind you of your resilience. You’ve lasted a long time on this planet, and you have made it through many hardships and times of fear and pain, and you can make it again. Je t’aime, Paris, don’t be afraid, and keep your heart open.