It’s a little weird seeing you’re whole life in a box, but when it’s a box going to Paris, one really shouldn’t complain…

Ah, I should probably explain: I’m moving to Paris for a while. At the randomest of suggestions from a good friend of mine, I decided to apply to grad school this past February. While most deadlines are up at the end of the month, in France applications go until May or June in some cases.

And school is free.

(Or it may as well be. It’s pennies compared to any Canadian or American tuitions I’ve ever seen and there’s no foreigners tax.)

And it’s in Paris. ‘Nuff said, non?

But there’s so much more too say:

One flight over hurricane Earl later and I land in the most romantic city in the world.

My first few hours had me lugging said box up and down endless stairs and through turnstiles’ to narrow to fit because apparently escalators aren’t so popular in the subways around these parts.

Not so romantic if you ask me… But I finally made it to my destination and a few hours later:

Apt. check, metro pass check, googly eyes because everyone around here is so god damn elegant/put together, (and did I mention beautiful?? ‘Cuz they are…) check. And I’m off to the races.

And by races I mean a walk through Le Marais with some friends, drinking on the sidewalk (because as long as you don’t step into the street it’s ok, apparently…) fripperie reccomendations, a pit stop at the best falafel place in Paris, (worth the long wait, I promise) and then gellato & a metro ride home.

Oh yea, and amidst all this, I spotted Kate Lanphear buying what looked like tea at a shop. I was having a serious fan girl moment on the inside. Like, jumping up and down screaming on the inside. To say I died would be an understatement.

Paris, je t’aime.