Dear Paris,

I know we got off to a rough start four years ago. I was groggy, recovering from being seasick on the ferry from Dover and none too happy to see your overcast skies after having spent two days in a surprisingly sunny London, where I strolled through Kensington Gardens with a boy from my hotel after he bought me Bailey’s ice cream (quick way to my heart, that’s for sure). You were dirty and littered with cigarette butts and your metro system smells like piss. I was not terribly impressed with the Tour de Eiffel and the gypsy pickpocketing beggars made me nervous. 

But the hour I spent writing by Sacre Coeur was lovely. And the pork chops I had at that cafe by the opera were the best I ever had. You ruined Costco croissants for me. Years later I remember some of your moments fondly. And I’ve been wanting to come back, to give you a second chance, because some say you are the greatest city in the world, full of creativity and beauty and nothing rivals the Parisian life.

You better not let me down when I visit you in July.

Love, 

Alice

PS: Berlin, Amsterdam and Prague, I can’t wait to meet you!