The first question so many people have asked me about my 2 months in Paris since being back has not been about the internship, but about my love life. No romance in Paris? Why not?
 
I admit that I have a thing for men who speak French, and I appreciate a Parisian in a suit just as much as the next person, but there’s more to Paris than experiencing a French love affair. And I actually did have romance in Paris, a little less conventional and significantly more suited to my type: my Parisian partner in crime and soul mate, Kelly (http://mylifeaparis.tumblr.com).


 
Living right by the gay district in the Marais, people probably weren’t bothered by the fact that we looked like a couple. We would walk along the Seine at night, arm in arm, casually passing the numerous couples overstepping their PDA boundaries but simultaneously fitting in with them. Often sharing a fleur de sel crepe, often discussing how happy we were together. If that isn’t romance, I don’t know what is.
 


You can imagine our sadness when the time came to leave Paris for Italy (I should really not complain, but it’s what unemployment has done to me). But we made our mark on our last day, one of the most memorable moments of the summer. We had just filled our stomachs with L’As du Falafel on what was the most beautiful day in Paris that week. We walked to our most frequented bridge Pont Louis-Phillippe with a cold can of Leffe in hand, powering through the ignorant tourists who thought it was a good idea to come to Paris in August. Kelly attached a padlock to the bridge fence, a tradition for couples visiting Paris that symbolizes their “everlasting love” (thanks Wikipedia). Appropriately linked to it was a tab from the Leffe can. We aligned the lock with St. Genvieve, the patron saint of Paris, each kept one key for ourselves, and made a collaborative effort to toss the third key into the Seine. A peaceful and fitting end to our two-month adventure and something to come back to when we buy our property in the Marais. What’s the girl term for bromance? I think it’s just pure romance.

When living in Paris, you can’t help but dream about the celebrities of the past who lived in this delicious city. I say “delicious” because one celebrity in in particular took over our day-to-day fantasy as we walked by and sniffed the numerous out-of-our-price-range restaurants on every corner: the fabulous Julia Child. Both of us had just read her memoir My Life in France, a painful and indulgent read considering that she was living our exact dream: adventuring in Paris with the love of her life in the company of the cultural elite, dining at Michelin-starred restaurants every week if not every other day. Kelly and I decided to pay tribute to her foodie inspiration by visiting her Left Bank apartment on Rue de l’Universite. “81 Rue de Loo” she called it. Sadly to the French, she wasn’t much of a celebrity/food hero as she was to us Americans, and there was no sign, placard, or anything that took note of the fact that the Julia Child lived here. Of course it was a rented apartment and the French never needed someone to tell them how to master their own cuisine, but Kelly and I felt that something should be done in her honor. So Julia, this one’s for you.

Because it’s impossible to adequately summarize the night we spent in Pamplona, here is a short glimpse into how we started the night. Stay tuned until the last line for the ultimate summary of what the next ten hours were like.