Ascending out of earth’s womb by way of manmade stairs, escaping the clutches of the scree, whistle, murmurs and stench of pee lingering in the subway behind me, I step out onto the age worn grimy white cobble stone and red brick street. Masses of limestone buildings cradle me from every direction growing tall and mighty, reaching like giants to the heavens. Stronghold wooden doors and wrought twisted designs of iron decorating their bodies. The clouded sky above my head is damp, blue-gray, and delivering down to the cracks of earth a light shower with November gusts. I raise my faux fur lined hood of my warm blue coat to the brim of my forehead hiding my freshly straightened hair. I wish to escape the downpour should it grow in strength, yet want nothing to block my vision of this magnificent place. I swiftly put on my black cotton mittens to warm my already bone-chilled hands. Grasping tightly to the handle of my turquoise suitcase with a blue and white-stripped duffel bag layered on top, I pull them in protectively to my body. The click clack of the wheels against the brick is a consistent heartbeat to supply my journey.
Gazing about the 360-degree landscape I notice every little cafe tucked into their havens. Old worn out round red tables with matching metal chairs standing watch outside their doors. Sturdy men lounging about smoking cigarettes, the smoke swirling into the atmosphere, adding unique fragrance to the Parisian air. Young and middle-aged ladies pass me by with strollers and the new lives that lay in them, all out for their afternoon walks. Across the unique and lively car ridden street, an older gentleman is stooped over a pile of ripe green grapes while his grandson reaches out his hand to grasp for one to pleasure his taste buds. The little market the gentleman is at draws my attention, the fruits looking delectable even from afar. The air about me is older and crisper than what I am used to in the sunny and smoke filled air of Los Angeles, California. Spirits of those long gone linger and dance about me on the winds, playing and tugging at my clothes, their essences a part of the veins of the city. It did not hit me until this moment that I stand rooted in the nebula of France. My eyes, soul, and heart drink in the very aura of the famous city. I realize with a heart-wrenching thump I have made it to the home of my dearest love. I am finally in Paris.
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