Oh no, no, no. You didn’t pronounce it correctly.
Don’t even look at me, seriously, blame the Parisians! They made it crystal clear that your mere mortal lips will never, ever pronounce the sacred name of their city correctly. I’m not kidding; they hear you say “Paris” and look at you like you just insulted the president or something.
Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on with these folks, but this city made me realize just how crucial locals are to the vibe of a place. Yeah, sure, Paris is stunningly beautiful, and there’s romance dripping off every fancy balcony, but in terms of friendliness… Wow, I’ve never encountered anything like this.
Maybe it’s my fault; maybe Spain spoiled me with the natural carisma, the easy-going nature, and the casual moments you share with random strangers. Because, let me tell you, I just wasn’t built for the endless honking symphony, streets filled with enough cigarette smoke to fog up the Eiffel Tower, piles of trash that work as benches, rats the size of baguettes, insults tossed around like free candy, and—let’s not forget—those suspicious shower schedules (seriously, every two or three days? Is water rationed?).
Paris may not be my soulmate city, but despite the chaos and my overly dramatic complaints, every second with my friends there was incredible. Each outing got progressively crazier, louder, and messier, yet somehow became one of the year’s absolute highlights.
Oh wow so, turns out, people really do make the place? Who knew?
París, si, P-a-r-í-s
Moments of peace in les Champs-Élysées.
The fatigued figures. And that guy in the back.
The Hunchbacked, or as I like to say it, la jorobada.
Lille mentioned.
