I know it's a cliche, but seriously, Paris in the springtime really is beautiful. It's warm and sunny. Everyone seems to be carrying a bouquet of flowers and the city's famous cafes are ready and waiting with their little iron-legged tables draped with crisp white linens, waiters unobtrusive and poised to serve. I had ever been to Paris in the spring until the day I ran away from home.
It sounds like I'm some uber-smart teenager who secretly saved my babysitting money, figured out how to get a passport, and snuck off to the airport, ditching my parents and the remainder of high school just to live the life of a tragically misunderstood artist in France.
First of all, that never works; girls like that turn into tragically diseased prostitutes. Second, I'm not a teenager. I'm in my thirties, and I don't feel particularly smart. Especially alone in France. I did manage to figure out the passport thing, secretly save money and sneak off to the airport, but I was ditching my husband and the remainder of a flawed marriage to live the life of a... well, there's the thing. What am I? Tragically misunderstood, no doubt, by everyone I left behind. Except for one person. The one to whom I just sent his own one way ticket to Paris.
Hint: not my husband.
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