Paris is like that beautiful boy in high school whom you worshiped but who had no idea that you even existed. Cold, chilly - ignoring your desires completely - Paris just goes about its business while you try vainly and completely unsuccessfully to get its attention. You wear your nicest clothes. You tramp about in the Tuileries in the snappiest, most brisk winter winds, you take advantage of museums and you sit at the corner booth in cafes drinking espressos, you wash your hair and spritz perfume, you oooh and aahhh at all the right moments at all of Paris' beauty, you admire it constantly, you do everything right. But still Paris' winter chill rages on and you are left out in the cold. But then, right when you don't expect it, Paris looks your way with a glittering smile - a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower from the Orangerie, the harmonious symmetry of those never-ending streets - and just when you thought you would give up on Paris altogether (not really, not really), you realise that you're in the throes of a love so powerfully unrequited Shakespeare could write a really good play about it.
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