Dear Paris,
I have loved you hopelessly for many years. It was Valentine’s Day 1985 when I first fell to your moody charms. We met on a rainy afternoon, but that is so like you, to look even lovelier with tears streaking your white marble face, then pouring into the Seine, that broad swath of watery silk that drapes across you, a scarf worn just-so.
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The spires of the Gothic-style Church of Our Lady Before Tyn, in Old Town Square, Prague, tower above the city. |
And because I have loved you with such ardor (did I say loved? I still love you, always will) it is only fair to tell you I have been unfaithful. Her name is Prague. She resembles you in many ways. I’ve heard countless comparisons, but I have refused to believe them, until now that I’ve experienced her for myself.
Oh Paris, what can I say? I feel even guiltier for the fact that she is your hipper, sexier, bohemian sister. That she wears clashing skirts of green and salmon, stained yellow and brown.
Atop it all, wavy red tiles tumble over her shoulders like hair that cannot be tamed. She is unabashedly bawdy, self-confident without being haughty.
And while that is something that has always beguiled me about you, Paris, your haughtiness, truthfully, it’s been getting on my nerves lately. Why must you always strong-arm me, indeed all of us who adore you, with your impeccable style, your artistic perfection? Why must you be both less accessible and more refined?
You assume such an untouchable brand of superiority that I finally must admit it exhausts me. Whereas Prague, well, despite her marvelous castle, she is, at heart, a refreshingly down-to-earth girl.
Continued: A Change of Heart: Au Revoir Paris, Hello Prague
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