January 16, 6 am
I was running late, in the corridors of the airport. Accelerated and barefoot, I passed the security, almost lost the plane, and I started my first trip alone. My parents didn’t like the idea. Months before, Paris was the scene of death and terror. Although fearful, I bought my ticket (little did they know I was preparing them for what I did later).
Bienvenue! Bonjour, bonjour!
I looked for the bus to take me to the heart of the city, and through the window I visualized the first images of Paris. The friend who welcomed me, for a couple of nights, was already waiting, I breathed a sigh of relief and ran enthusiastically. You taught me the subway system, gave me the key to your house and I went alone, in search of my idea of Paris. I knew exactly what I wanted to see and the time I had, not forgetting what took me there in the first place. I got into the subway and I was afraid, there were armed soldiers at each corner and I remembered what I had seen and heard on TV. I tried to fight the anxiety in which I immersed myself and focused on the reality. At that time, Paris was the safest city to be in and bad things also happen at your doorstep. I took a deep breath and accepted the scenery.
The Eiffel tour! 
I got off the subway and I saw it right away. All roads lead me to it and I sat very close, reading, warming my soul, while enjoying hot chocolate and cheese croissant. I was there for two hours and this is my favorite memory. The Eiffel Tower gaining light and form with the early evening. Lovers, photogenic friends, dogs on leash and walking selfie-sticks strolled without paying attention to me. I looked at them thoughtfully and smiling. I belonged to that painting, this was my imagination of Paris.
I ate a crepe and with my stained shirt I entered the Louvre, free of charge because I was 25 years old. I explored the museum, saw the Mona Lisa, was photographed by strangers and when I felt fulfilled I left. I made my way to the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Élysées, still illuminated by the Christmas lights, purposely forgotten. The expensive display cases reflected the elegant women with their purchases, the flamboyant men of taste and the tourists. The crowd and the French accents accompanied me, and I was ready with the bonsoir and merci on the tip of my tongue. I bought a baguette, once home I relaxed and slept.
I woke up very early and introduced myself to Notre-Dame. I stared at it and the music from the Disney movie echoed in my ear. I wished my sisters, partners of the cinematographic marathons, were with me. The cathedral is immense, filled with stained glass, incense, prayers and silence. Nostalgically, I was meditating. Everything was exactly as I had seen and supposed. I didn’t see humpbacks or gargoyles singing, but my imagination gave me no rest. I had lunch there, through the Wi-Fi loved ones knew I was well, had a glass of wine and continued my journey.
My travel diary pointed to Montmartre, Sacré-Cœur and the painters street as obligatory stops. Lost I wandered through those streets, guided by the sound of violins, where dozens of painters sketched that magical environment, almost impossible to paint. For hours I didn’t say a word but a whole internal dialogue of sounds, colors, touches and smells coexisted and shivered my skin. I stepped into the staircase of the Sacré-Coeur, and surrounded by French conversation and the live music, I rested.
Suddenly I saw the Moulin Rouge, I remembered Satine and Christian passionately singing “Come what may”. At dawn I left on the same bus, heading for the plane that would take me to Rome. I reviewed the photographs, smiled and patted myself on the back.
Merci Paris, à bientôt!
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