My mother and I were cleaning out and organizing our bookshelves in the common room this afternoon, finding space for (yes, finally) a tv screen, and found the old photo album and journal that my mother kept when we went to Paris one December so many years ago. I had saved up all my money, having decided that Paris was the place to be when I was ten years old, and paid for my own part of the trip. It was every bit as wonderful as I imagined, too. O la la, Paris: c'est ma ville de couer.
|Moi, en face de Notre Dame.|
|Je suis la petite fille la! (Can you see me on the lower steps?)|
|In all black, what a petite Parisienne|
|Amboise, the sweetest city.|
|In my French-lettered black t-shirt, journal in hand.|