Springtime in Paris this year sold France to me in a way I'd never expected. When it comes to travel I am apparently a hopeless romantic. All that emotion that most 20-something women expend on men is, in my case, channelled into falling desperately in love with cities.
Bordeaux is seducing me as I type, as my girlfriends tunelessly sing old songs in a kitchen on the Rue Jean Burguet and we chat about what we've done today (an art gallery; an excavation that pertains nicely to my dissertation under a church on the Place des Martyrs de la Resistance; drinking hot chocolate that gave me a shaky sugar rush) and the sun sinks and the gin at my right hand goes straight to my head.
It is beautiful, it is interesting, I am in love.