This is the mood I’m in when I book a ticket to Paris. Two glasses of wine. A deep ache. And a feeling of restlessness.

I imagine fish heads staring up with dead eyes. The smell of meat in bustling markets. Croissants that flake when you caress them. The lasciviousness of French. And the joy of men who hold eye contact as you pass.

I had a French man tell me he thought Americans were prudes.

I was relieved.

Paris, to me, is like listening to rock music under the stars. It parallels my fervor for life. The intensity. The grit, decadence, and unapologetic magnificence.

It feels like me.

When I forget to be smaller
then I am.