Beloved Paris how my heart bleeds for you.
You’ve opened your arms to me so many times, smiling with relief on learning I was an Aussie, benignly as I bastardised your language in my clumsy attempt to fit in, with a smirk as I grumbled about the cost of Internet top up. You brought tears of sadness when the Police Nationale confiscated the homeless man’s puppy; of pleasure on hearing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons in Sainte-Chapelle, of joy as I viewed your sparkling Eiffel Tower…and heartbreak at what you are experiencing now.
You philosophized on why I shouldn’t cross my ankles, argued why I should make the most of the generous aperitifs each eve, shouldn’t ignore offal, should try tartare with egg yolk, shouldn’t order butter with a croissant, should order the cafe gourmand. Your wait staff from all nationalities almost always warm, obliging, protective. You hid me safely the night I worried I was being stalked. And you hid your patrons safely in your kitchens when you learnt that several restaurants had been targeted.
