The never enough excess in Paris

Paris is noisy, but not loud

That clamorous background noise on the métro somehow calms your racing heart

Paris is busy, but always time for a cig or café

The smell of swirling cigarette smoke from a Parisian woman always matches her perfume

Paris is functioning, but always on the edge

Aging cracks on the pavement are such minor flaws compared to the marvelous façades

Paris is musical, where you dance from dawn to dusk

Les ponts and La Seine are your Parisien getaway right around the corner at any hour

Paris is old, but vibrant and youthful

For the old and the young, you wouldn’t exchange a day in Paris with anything

Paris is romantic, in all possible ways

A single lingerer is enchanted with the city like every affectionate amoureux passing by


The flaws, the affections, the kisses, the drunks, and other excesses

It is never enough

Avant toi, je ne connaissais pas bien l’amour.

Alfred de Musset a un jour prononcé la célèbre phrase: “La vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve. Et vous aurez vécu, si vous avez aimé.”

Je pense à toi. Paris est toujours une bonne idée.


île Saint Louis

Chére Som,

Thank to our initial ignorance, unsuspecting of its desirable nature, so that we had the incroyable luxury to have île Saint Louis as our first home in Paris. We were unaware of the ardent love that we soon devoted to this petit île that has everything we need to live in both dreams and reality. Little did we know that it is the island that every Parisian, or tout le monde, dreams to go home to every night after several glasses of wine by La Seine. Little did we know that luxury of having Notre Dame as our guardian angel soon became the most irreplaceable view both leaving and coming home. Little did we know the addictive sinful pleasure to walk out of our apartment under the envious gaze of the tourists on our island.


Needless to say, we fell in love with this island immediately. It was too easy, and we felt no shame of the cheapness of our love, because no one could have resisted it.

Île Saint Louis is the heart of Paris, but it stands perfectly by itself as a floating recluse from urban pollution. People take une promenade on the island to escape the noises and crowds but still get to enjoy the enchanting murmur of La Seine. We indulged ourselves in this endless promenade every single day. The choice to stroll through our island is often an end of itself, and we didn’t need to use our desire for the sinful pleasure of Berthillon as an excuse. We found ourselves trapped in the melody of the guitarists singing on our favorite pont Saint Louis, almost too often. Pont Saint Louis connects our lives and souls with our Parisian home and obsessions, and we rest our soul and love in one of those love locks whenever we passed by the sidewalks. We spoke to teenagers playing football with our broken French, and we sit in the cold chatting with a Colombian musician who was, too, falling for the beauty of Paris and struggling to obtain it as part of his real life. As if, love for Paris is our language to connect our souls with the rest of the world.


You and I. You and I, how many times had we listened to the chattering of La Seine and wished the nights will never end and the days will continue.

Ma tiny Chérie, tu me manques et notre vie sur notre île me manque toujours, comme toi.




Je suis partie, mais ce n’était pas mon dernier jour


I looked out to the window as the plane embarked, my falling teardrops were the immediate reaction to the sudden shock of seeing myself leaving this city.

The city that seizes my heart indefinitely.


I remembered his promise to watch my flight leaves, and my nose felt the sourness of my unwillingness to leave him behind the security bar.

My most desirable reflection in my Dearing eyes.

No one could tell you for certain that leaving for the second time is easier than the first.

The next time only makes us feel certain that there could be more prochain fois.

Paris in fall is the most golden of all.

As the waves kiss the riverbanks gently and tirelessly, the shimmering of La Seine reflects the entire city of Paris exactly as a moveable feast. The moving bodies in the bateux mouches and silhouettes passing by La Seine were amazed by the astounding beauty of this city completely revealed in the sun. The gentle sheen of the light allows us to see our reflection in each other’s admiring eyes and glowing rosy cheeks. Curled up besides the water, we wallowed in ourselves in this seldom warmth and the closeness of our hearts. We indulged ourselves in this improbable Paris sunshine in the fall as the cliché pair of les amoureux by La Seine.


Last minutes.

I finally let go of my stubbornness several tensome minutes before my flight, but reluctantly.

I blended into passing strangers until he could no longer identify the sound of my dragging luggage. I looked for my destination on the blinking board with thousands pairs of other eyes, knowing that my heart remains in the beginning of this story.

Trapped in a plane.

The engine of the plane hovered in my ears and drummed inside the deepest part of my heart, and the noise disrupted my complex feelings and I was unable to think. I closed my eyes to welcome darkness, but all I could see was the beaming sunshine that invited only joy and laughter onto the streets of Paris. Along the gleaming water, I could only hear the whispering of my lover and see my radiant smile in his eyes. I remember the laughter of the kids playing football with a playful elderly and how we captured the moment with joy. There were so many irreplaceable moments in this city, and they filled me with joy, and only joy I remember.

I could feel my heart tightened a little when the wheels of the plane untouched the ground. I glanced outside of the window and pulled myself back from my silly imaginations and wishes. I disregarded the pitiful glances of strangers and let my tears streamed down my cheeks freely to leave visible traces of sorrow for leaving my one and only. I closed my eyes again, and this time, I only hear whispers in my ears “Tu dois retourner, toute suite”.


Mein Spaßvogel, ce n’était pas mon dernier jour.


Paris est une Affaire, pas une Rêve


I am back, but it feels as if I have never left

Every step I take towards you

I sink myself into this bittersweet of guilty pleasure


The beaming morning light pour into the flight cabins

We look like as if we need another round of endless sleep

I saw the reflection of myself in the window

All I read was more joy and impatience

As if I am going home

Somebody used to tell me that it is the journey that matter and not the destination, but this does not seem to be the case for me this time. It was exactly the destination that kept me alive and smiled at the person at the boarder custom even when he messed up my nationality, again.

When Paris was not tangible, I munched on countless of photos and memories of laughter and tears together. I felt great most of the time, but I fell into pieces sometimes when the magic didn’t work. None of these wonderful collections of Paris gave me such feeling of breathlessness when my flight was approaching the European continent. The distress that occupied my mind just several hours ago evaporated with a snap of the fingertips, and the magic is exactly, the surreal reality of being so close to Paris.

The chilly cold air outside the airport immediately captured the top of my throat and I almost chocked, but instead I opened the top bottom of my coat and breath in all the particular greetings from Paris. I drew a map of Paris in my head and kept it as the cover of my book so I don’t ever have to find it when I need it. First step into the OrlyBus, everything felt so natural and familiar. I can identify almost every street sign that I have left traces of my stories, and cross roads without thinking twice.


            It feels as if I have never left, and the truth is, my heart has stayed in this wonderful city when I stepped onto a plane during the high of summer. My addictive imaginings keep my delusional wishes to reunite my heart and body alive, and as cliché as it is I am made believed that I can only do so by following my heart.

I woke up to the violet mist at the end of Rue de Grenelle, and the morning haze swarmed into the room when I opened the balcony door that I often dreamt about. I stood at the balcony watched the first sunrise that dragged me out of my delusional thought of being somewhere else but Paris. It was more beautiful than any other sunrise that I have had imagined. I stood at the petit balcony, and indulged myself with the incredible view listening to the sizzling whisper of my warm cup of café allongé. The morning smell of Paris is exactly l’air du café, and all it was missing was the fine bouquet of cigarette.


You can find my obsession with her ridiculous

You can even say that it is a fruitless affair

Just throw yourself into this affair

And you will know that it is more real than anything

What do you have to offer to keep me with you? Exactly, just you and yourself.


An Anonymous Lover of Paris

 You stroll down the scenic street where golden lights flicker on the sidewalk, where your silhouette is captured by a stranger’s camera.


You are anonymous,

but you are here to be seen.

Before you realize,

you are already in love.


What does a lover do? Whispering love near your ears and scratching your back until you feel the soothing chills electrocute your body? Scrolling through memories together and wishing to recreate every moment with you? Starting a blog about you because you are the living inspiration?

I have done everything for Paris except for the first. She doesn’t like feeling the chills, and so I am finding everything I could do to rejoin with my shared lover of the world. Countless writers and poets have attempted to depict her dangerous charms with words; endless enchanting photos of her have allured many to fall for her both in reality and in frames. How clueless I was avant toi, anxiously approached you not knowing the beautiful disaster that will soon change everything I have known and assumed about my world.


I came to you as a solo dancer, danced along your golden streets from dawn to dusk, and I never left alone.

When the gloom in the sky is lifted, we looked for the jetcloud that mirrors La Seine and rejoice to be near the latter.

The midnight laughter and tipsy confessions were all included in the bill you paid for bottles of merlot and blocks of Camembert.

We indulged ourselves to become part of your beauty at the rooftop of Rue de Grenelle and by the riverbank of La Seine.


La Seine, la belle séduit, she flowed though our hearts and nourished our scars and pain as we drowned ourselves willingly into her soothing whisper de la vie.


In Paris, you are anonymous. No one knows where you come from, and who you are. You can be any story and every story you once wished you could tell others, because you are truly free from all the judgments and presumptions, so be the best version of yourself. Feel the beating of your heart and you are one of the living stories this city of love.

Enjoy your pain au chocolat and café crème at a sidewalk café. When you are finished, still nobody would question you about your empty cup with coffee stain. A cigarette could diffuse the bittersweet taste in your mouth, but you can also choose to sketch the au naturel beauty who is already smoking on the other table. The truth is, you don’t need any reason to be sitting for long, and you are simply taking your luxurious time of being alone. You are waiting for no one, but surely someone will strike your captivating eyes. If then, close your eyes and wander in your dangerous imagination. Take a few seconds, pick your favorite plot and resume your wander in reality.


Paris waits for no one, not even her daring lovers.

She may not wait for your earnest confession, but she will surely make you a better lover.


Ah Paris, you have given me nothing to take away with me, but I have given you everything.





Your Anonymous Lover