There was so much about my recent trip to Paris that was wonderful. Unexpectedly, my time spent sightseeing alone each day was partly what made the trip so memorable.
As I explored the different Arrondisements, it didn’t matter if I stopped every five feet to snap a picture, decided to veer off my charted course to wander down an interesting side street, or found myself lost and had to retrace my steps. When my feet got tired or I got hungry, I stopped to rest or to eat; and at the end of the day I always had adventures to report back to my husband.
My sketch book was always handy, and since Paris is a city for people watching my cafe breaks provided the perfect opportunity to try and capture the expressions and spirit of those around me.
In short, I would say that my entire trip was trés parfait except for one little thing. Everyone (or so it seems) in Paris smokes – and I’m not referring to the occasional social cigarette. Parisians seem to be heavy weight champions in the sport of chain smoking. Sitting in the those wonderful outdoor cafes means you’re liable to be served up a side of cancer along with your Chèvre.
C’est domage, but maybe by the next time I visit that will have changed. Here’s hoping…