we'll go somewhere, we said, that friday night on ludlow street. just us.
together we've traveled for weddings, for holidays, for friends, for family -- but not yet for us. and there's a particular something about travel -- about getting lost -- about elsewheres. we haven't seen one another elsewhere yet.
paris, we said. paris in winter.
because rain and cafes, museums and mood. paris in grayscale. so we hatch plans and daydream -- over maps, out windows, in books lent us by friends. read. scribble. share. sigh. repeat.
i'm not much for itineraries. thinking in, packing for, scenarios -- that's what i'm after.
people watching in a cafe in the rain. evening at the opera. wandering the louvre, the d'orsay, the seine and its bridges. hours lost to shakespeare and company. footsteps on cobblestone on the left bank. buying a baguette first thing in the morning, nibbling here and there as we go. montmartre at dawn.
and the perfect dream of it -- coffee in one hand, his hand in the other.