Aurélie in love letter by a « Parisian » girl mode
London, I love you. And I can’t quite express it. I know I’m still probably under the crush effects, namely dopamine shots in my brain, and I have to admit I never understood the logic behind your shower systems… And I probably never will.
I always knew I felt more at ease on British soil than in most places I’ve ever been to. I do love my country, don’t be mistaken, but the UK is something else. France is like family. You’re like made for me. Ideally, I would live here, with the (British) love of my life and our children in a nice house and be a well-known author.
Having lived in Paris, I thought all capitals were the same you see. Now that I think of it, I’ve known Madrid for a while too. I guess I was just not in the same place in my life all this time.
So it maybe just you, the right place at the right time.
I know you must have your flaws. You simply must. Everybody does. But for now, all I’ve seen is your qualities. I’ve never seen you under a moody weather that is. Yet. I’ve spent the weekend wandering with a friend in your parks and streets and make every comparisons possible between you and Paris. Therefore, I know we started off on the right foot.
I’m just another love fool to everyone’s eyes just yet. Obviously. But when can we enjoy this kind of feelings the right way then?
I love your markets, I love your parks, I love your perfect balance between the city and nature, I love your business and calm, I love your colors, I love your style, I love your language, I love your way of thinking, I love your roses in Regent’s, I love your mad tee-shirts and façades in Camden market, I love your happily smiling singer groups on Portobello road, I love the marks on the pavement to remind (me) people to look the right way for cars, I love the squirrels in St James’, I love the Diana memorial fountain (and think she would have loved to see all this activity around it), I love the giant horse head (seems like his body has been erased from the picture) near Oxford Street, I love your phlegm, I love your chidlren learning to ride their bike near the Serpentine, I love your book stores (oh my, when I walk into one of these…)…
London, I love you like a lover I may never have for myself. Maybe this is for the best. I won’t have to find out about your downsides, if ever. I guess that’s what they call perfect love then.
London, I love you like the life I’d love and dream to live.