In 2010, I became a living cliché and ran off to Paris for a few months to find myself.  It was a well-timed and well-deserved sabbatical after what had been a string of arduous years prior.  Like any respectable heroine on the pages of a plumy novel, I packed too many suitcases, spent in excess time conjuring images of the perfect place to be idle with a notebook in one hand and a glass of rosé in the other, and bought a black cashmere beret before locking the door to my life at home.  I was restless, roving, and ready.

I rented a cozy apartment in the 4^th arrondissement that exuded charm upon entering and was roomy enough to glide through its space unencumbered yet had an intimate feel to envision a moveable feast set on the table while Hemingway regaled with tales of life and literature.  The ornate wrought-iron railings that protected the elongated, stately windows beckoned each morning with a flitting visit from a neighborhood bird, reminding me that there was a buttery croissant awaiting in the café below. 

As with most retreats from reality, I relished being hedonistic with my time, luxuriating in the unpredictable chronology that comprised my day. I spent hours in communion with art, minutes on the Metro, and embraced the suspension of any clock as I walked aimlessly to the next fabulous destination.  In Paris, my days and nights were gleefully without structure; lunch in Montmartre flowed into evenings at the Bercy, and a midnight concert in a candlelit cathedral came with an element of surprise as to what level of light would greet you upon returning home.  In Paris, time is the rebel child in a family of framework.

One of the joys of traveling to a place where you’re unknown is not the thrill of being able to bluff your way into being someone you’re not, but rather the freedom to be who you truly are beneath the quotidian of life. There’s gratification in a shared story with a stranger that in time will fade from their ears, and the divulgence of a surname that is unnecessary for casual acquaintance. What’s more exciting is the sensation of meeting someone new, someone with whom you won’t share a tomorrow. The encounter becomes a page from a newly opened book, with the shared camaraderie archived as you move on to the next chapter.

It’s effortless to fall in love with Paris.  With its enduring beauty and gilded architecture, impressive cuisine that looks as sumptuous as it tastes, verdant gardens whose trees stand guard like graceful ballerinas, and the open-air markets with their hues of floral splendor and hints of Provençale herbs that resemble a Monet still life come to life, it’s uncomplicated in the spell it casts.

The true exquisiteness of Paris isn’t in its alluring facade, but in its presence. It possesses an attitude that seizes the air with a fragrancy that drifts into the mind of its dwellers, a gentle reminder to savor life through the imbuement of all that is aesthetic and pleasing to the senses. It’s a philosophy that embraces the small subtleties of beauty with each day to conclude a life well-lived, more than a monumental event that overtakes a year. It’s the instinct to set a gorgeous array of flowers on the dinner table, knowing it will make the meal appreciably better. It’s the secret of less is often more, and that beauty is most beautiful when it’s allowed to be understated. Paris lives in the moment, not waiting for a special occasion to shine.

Although my love affair with Paris was all too brief, it guided a change to the way I think.  I now see colors where there was once black and white.  It gave me the call to courage needed to move my life across the country and begin a new chapter at a time when many of my peers were nestling into the familiar.   The imprint of its experience helped to endure the challenging times that scattered about the years that followed, knowing that behind every storm cloud, awaits the possibility of a joyful reward. The exuberance of Paris helps one to find their missing joie de vivre.