Where Romance Is More Than Just A Word

I grew up hearing a lot about Paris. My father had stayed there for six months in the sixties, and he often talked about the grandeur of the city, its museums, its people, and its indefinable air of romance. Photographs were often brought out to accompany the telling, old-black and white photographs with well-dressed men and women, the Eiffel Tower at night, the narrow streets of cobbled stone, the lovely palace at Versailles. As you may imagine, to the child that I was, Paris was tinged with the sepia overtones of my father’s memories, an embodiment of what a city should be. Small wonder then, that I held on to those memories, and Paris headed the list of ‘places I should visit before I die’.

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