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Last week I didn’t post anything, because I was kinda in Paris. Good times. We had a Lonely Planet and everything. Fun fact: we went on a literary walking tour. No the whole thing, but we carefully selected a few wonderful sites – Hemingway’s first address in Paris, the Fitzgerald’s house, Hemingway’s last address in Paris… This literary walking tour turned out to be the crappiest tour in that Lonely Planet. Houses were either torn down (we expect), dilapidated, or just, y’know, standing there. It turns out I’m not the kind of history-buff that gets excited about regular houses. “This is a street walked down to get his groceries” apparently doesn’t do much for me either. I guess I need pretty words for embellishment. Or maybe I’m just not that much into houses. Pff… I’m ranting. ANYWAY, the tour was disappointing. Well, Gertrude Stein’s house had a plaque, so I guess that was cool.

Besides that, the city was, is, and will be, beautiful. Shoutout to baron Haussmann, yo. It wasn’t the last time I visited Paris and it won’t be the last.

There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.[1]


[1]Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition (1964; New York, 2009) 236.