there's something about those cities across the atlantic that undo me. everything is just so old. everything there is older than the oldest thing here.
our time in paris seems a bit like a dream. it's difficult to capture the feelings these photos conjure -- wonder, happiness, peace. gratitude for intentional and uninterrupted time together, just us, exploring by foot and living our way into the days. it was all so deeply good.
days that looked like paintings. dipping our toes into most of the arrondissements. balcony mornings. mornings in rooms with striped wallpaper. a birthday candle, carried in his coat pocket, perched atop an éclair on rue des saints-pères, and christened with a twenty eighth wish. names for someday, noticed and noted. rue cler -- passing by, we breathed air spiced of flowers, of fresh bread, of cured meats. at once, it made us hungry and filled us up. roses in café windows and children in navy, wearing berets. the gift of walking upon notre dame as the church bells rang. a pause at café de flore -- he read, i scribbled away. shutters and rooftops that broke my heart a little. red wine and onion soup. red wine and steak frites. sunday morning in jardin du palais royal. people watching on rue charlot -- the man with the yellow flowers, the man with the armful of baguettes. dawn on the streets of montmartre, café crème in one hand, his hand in the other. afternoon at the d'orsay. his face, when he first laid his eyes upon the seine. his face, when he laid his eyes upon me, dressed for the opera. around every corner, it seemed, a dream lay in wait.
i think forevermore i'll look back over these photos and think back on these days and be transported to a walden of sorts -- my very own spot in the woods.