Stories from Paris

{blissful beauty in Paris}

Lately I’ve been daydreaming and reminiscing about my trips to Paris, a lot. I wish I could take advantage of my (burgundy book) passport and move to France. If I spoke the language I wouldn’t think twice. No use being a writer in a country where you can’t speak the language, right? It’s funny, my Year teacher, Mr Short, would always yell at me and say “One day you’ll look back and wish you’d focused in this class”, but I suppose when you’re 16-years-old you don’t think about those things.

My intense love for all things baked makes France my dream home. The last time I was staying in the city of romance (it really is so romantic, no matter who you’re with), I stayed with Hajar’s (my bestfriend) aunt. We woke every morning in her tucked away, loft-apartment to feast on freshly baked bread and rich, smooth cheeses. It was a real loft, not the fake kind we see in the baby cities we live in now. The winding stairs were made of metal and the walls were exposed cement from its previous use as a factory. Everything didn’t match yet It fell together in perfect harmony, creating a living space that you truly couldn’t replicate. Worn rugs, real, comfortable couches and Warhol posters filled the space to create something only Paris could hold. Looking back now, it felt like home, when it wasn’t even my home. There’s something about Paris that warms the soul. It sucks you away and wraps you up.

{Scenes from the city}

Hajar’s patience with me whilst on our walks was admirable. I felt and acted like every patisserie — which was on every corner — was a new experience. My eyes would light up and I would have to cross the street to see what they had inside. Naturally, I would have to buy something as I was trying to find the perfect éclair.

 

 

{Speculos cupake}

 

 

{The perfect macarons}

Aside from the beautiful streets and parks I also fell in love with Pierre Hermé macarons. Truly the best macarons in the world. The decadent desserts were more than a ‘cookie’ — it almost feels insulting to call them that. Whenever I ate them it would remind me of the Ratatouille cartoon where Rene would describe his emotions when he sampled intricate flavours. I never would have thought that an olive oil macaron would taste like bliss. My absolute favourite was ‘Mogador’, a combination of passion fruit and chocolate. This flavour is unlike anything I’ve ever had. The marriage of the fruity taste alongside the intense chocolate was delectable, it melts in your mouth and doesn’t stick around nearly half as long as you would like it to. A thousand dollar flight to Paris would be worth taking simply for this one macaron. More than anything, I miss getting lost in the city. I mean, Hajar always knew where she was going, but for me it felt like a dream world.

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