When I encounter a small tucked away library, bookstore, or cafe, I feel a sense of wonder at all the treasures waiting to be found inside each shop.
Winemakers with ancestry dating bake to Napolean stored their barrels in 17th-century caves and held art worthy of the Louvre in their chateaus. As they conducted their craft with an amalgamation of modern wine making techniques and those passed down through centuries, I felt as though I was drinking history through slim-stemmed glasses.
At night, the smoke even seemed to cease, absorbed by the fresh, cool air. An epidemic of cigarettes has swept through Paris leaving one coughing at almost every intersection, adding to the city’s hackneyed languor. But as the sky’s blue grew deeper and deeper these irritants seemed to fade. Quiet, empty streets often prevailed, with lit up cafes exuding warm yellows and reds promising a haven from the slight winds with their hearty aromas and the vociferous jingle of laughs coming from those who had slightly more to drink than advisable.
As we drove into the city, I was greeted by a distinct amalgam of buildings, greenery, and people that can only be described as inexplicably Tokyo.