Go to Paris.

Paris is so often described, it’s hard to write about it freshly. Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps the history and literature have soaked into the building facades and the air and the light such that it is an integral part of it. Paris tugs at you and makes you want to go back, and be a part of it again and again.

In Paris, you feel that life is more graceful and that you, as part of this life, are more graceful, too. You build it up in your head before you go and after you come home for ever more (or at least for the rest of your life), you can recall graceful instances. A kind, dapper old man who helped you find your way, delighted that you were looking for the Place St-Sulpice! So easy to find! The Asian waiter—slim, young, elegant, efficient, perfect. The little girl, late at night, playing the piano—a magical young maestro. Was it all a dream? No, it’s Paris and you don’t want to leave and you seriously consider ex-patriotism.

Paris has a lovely effect on people. People in Paris value their dogs and flowers and bread and café crème and shoes and cellulite lotions. Everything becomes more romantic. The light on the water. The misty rain. Bridges. Iron work. Street lamps. Cats and dogs. Jackie Kennedy had a time in Paris. Anyone can take a picture of a street lamp or sculpture, with the Eiffel Tower in the background and you want it up on your walls.

The perfect ____. That was what was so nice about Paris. You could easily fill in the blank. The perfect breakfast: Steaming hot and rich café au lait and crispy warm croissants.

The perfect flowers; roses to carry around—a bunch of small yellow ones with pink tips.

The perfect view.

The perfect river, sunset, painting, shoes, dogs, bicycle, trash can.

Paris is elegant, my friends.