Nightmare in Paris

Before this summer, my "Paris experience"could have been defined only by the images and words that coloured books and articles with descriptions of the city. The word "Paris", to me, meant romance, fascination, that iconic idea of "joie de vivre." My infatuation, founded on ideals I had never experience, would continue to grow until I finally booked my plane ticket. Destination: Paris.  Despite the occasional disgruntled Parisian, it was everything I had envisioned it to be, my perception strongly influenced by my inexplicable and loyal love for Paris. Although my objective was to absorb as much of the Parisian way of life as possible, I came with a promise I intended to keep. Two actually. The first: bring back the most handsome Parisian man, and begin what would become a life long love story. And if, by some strange and unusual incident this would have failed to occur, I had a second promise. There it is. The one item I promised myself I wouldn't leave Paris without. Much more glamorous and reliable than any man, anyway.

 (picture taken in Barcelona, by my brother: www.tgandjam.tumblr.com)

The story of the YSL ring and I does, however, unfold as the most classic of love stories. It begins with an innocent look, one which then turned quickly into desire. My eyes refused to wander passed the borders of the little glass box in which in was securely encased. I knew I had to have it. Not only was it the ultimate accessory, but it would be my one tangible memory of Paris, in its most honest form. It was the only size left in the colour I wanted. And then the woman handed me the white box, the black ribbon almost covering the gold detailing reading "Yves Saint Laurent."I placed it securely in the palm of my hands, not willing to risk a change of losing it in the open black whole of my purse. It was only when I stepped out of my second cab to my hotel, did I realize I no longer had it.

A sudden sense of panic overcame me. It was nowhere to be found. I had lost it. Not only had a broken my promise, but the thought of someone else wearing MY ring was torturous. Unfaithfulness at its worst. I knew I left it in the cab, and I assumed my cab driver to have been the stereotypical representation of careless locals who despised tourist. There was no way I would ever see it again. Having exhausted all possible alternatives, I returned to the YSL store, carrying the heavy burden of a near-broken heart. I didn't know what I was looking for, however, that didn't seem to matter. As soon as I walked in, the saleslady didn't greet me with the customary "Bonjour." Instead, she surprised me with a familar little white box. "You forgot this in your cab. The driver brought it back. Can't tell you how lucky you are, mademoiselle."

And so it continues, the promised life-long love story. I only have Paris to thank.