I was thinking about Paris yesterday.

My sister-in-law is from Paris and she is both so inherently French that it’s impossible to articulate, and also impossibly not French at all – or rather, not stereotypically French.  She’s absolutely lovely – funny and kind and always open.  She intuitively knows how to cook and she always looks stylish in the way French women always do – effortlessly and understated.

J+I were supposed to be flying to Paris in a few weeks but we won’t be doing that anymore and my heart is heavy and oh so sad.  Life happened, which is the way of things, but it doesn’t change my soul-deep disappointment.

The last time I was in Paris ….  Well, it was *also* February and it was cold – snow flying horizontally along the Seine.  I’d forgotten my coat (Philadelphia had been unseasonably warm the day I flew) and no shops were open on Sunday for me to buy a new one.  So I spent my first day in Paris freezing, holding a sweater tightly around my body and breathing into a scarf that never left my neck.

I’d been there with a dear friend – a friend I traveled with frequently back in those days – and we’d explored Paris in winter.  Art museums, yes, but also cemeteries and hot cocoa and falafel and churches and movie theatres. I have such fond memories of that trip.  I had been so looking forward to sharing Paris with John.

One day.

Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Xoxo, g