…wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
It was still dark when alarm softly beeped right next to my pillow. We only landed in Paris twenty hours ago, jet-lagged and excited. Despite a three hour nap the day before, six hours of sleep was still not enough to get my body to get used to Parisian time zone.
I groggily climbed out of bed, trying to keep my husband from waking up. Feet cold on the hardwood floors of our French AirBnb, I tiptoed to the bathroom where a fresh set of clothing was prepared for me last night by my more-awake self.
Camera bag by the door and a large plastic bag stuffed with tulle skirts that I brought with me all the way across the Atlantic. Some may call me crazy. I call myself an artist.