Bonjour! Today I have locked myself inside of my room with my Level 1 French Rosetta Stone, a notebook, pencil, and French 1 book, in order to master the art of the french language. So today while I sit staring into the light of my computer, the circular sunglasses I bought in Paris shielding me from its bright rays, I leave you with an article written for my school's newspaper about my escapades in the city of light. So close your eyes, listen to the sound of accordions that waft past your ears, and transport yourself to the second story of a train taking you far away from the chaos of city of life and into the luxury and decadence of the Palace of Versailles. Enjoy!

Walking down the sun-drenched streets of Paris - the thick structure of the Eiffel tower standing like a skeleton filtering the French sky into every corner of the city – the artistic culture was anything but subtle, if not as potent as the scent permeating from the rich cheeses that adorned every outdoor café. At the Luxembourg gardens, hundreds of French rested on flimsy forest green metal chairs, looking into the distant places reflected in the fountains, or sat beneath the glittering shadows of an Oak tree’s expansive canopy while playing a game of chess.  While nibbling on a crepe purchased at one of the garden’s many dainty crepe stands, they befriended the intricately carved statues that lined the gardens and dreamed of fanciful pasts when the stone eyes they stared into occupied the faces of the living and powerful. Here a thick cloud of perfume, fresh flowers, and cigarettes enveloped one’s every sense and took them back to a dimension where pleasure was found in reading a vintage book picked up from one of the many river-side art and literature vendors; where one’s imagination and reality was better than that of what they could watch on their iPad or TV.

In Le Marais, the art scene clawed at its every barrier and created an environment thriving on expression and creativity. While walking down the narrow cobble stone streets, one was forced to wander into one of the many bookstores, designer boutiques or photography shops in attempts to flee from the mopeds that whizzed by or to escape into a past era full of life and individuality. Here I discovered Fabien Breuvart, one of the most divine places on Earth. Crowding its walls, old black and white photographs taken with vintage Pentax cameras fought for recognition along side their beautiful counterparts. Crossing the small store only took about four strides, each of which echoed off the black and white checkered marble floors. Outside the thin black metal-paned glass doors stood a giant milky-white tinted jug containing fragments of ancient memories in the form of small Polaroid shots that would never find their owner but were available for one euro for someone else to enjoy. After walking down many more meandering streets, where the surrounding classic French stone buildings stretched far above, their mansard roofs forming a vessel to the placid blue sky overhead, I found one of the most chic boutiques in the world. Inside, beautiful tunics composed of vintage Christian Dior scarves and shift dresses crafted from bold patterned Etro handkerchiefs hung from sleek matte wooden hangers. When glimpsing into the floor above the storefront, one could barely make out the floor to ceiling shelves which housed stacks upon stacks of fabulous vintage silk designer scarves. Beyond the chipping white Venetian blinds, one watched as a young French man held up a beautiful pastel rose printed scarf to the light before placing in under the fine needle of his sewing machine to complete the final touches of a beautiful garment.

 Famous for housing Coco Chanel’s lavender tainted mirrored stair, the Opera district was not only admired for its many classic and respected labels, but also for its reputation for fostering rising designers, just beginning to etch their legacy into the fashion scene. Here, coated wicker chairs spilled out into every sidewalk and sounds of French chatter flittered around every street corner and occupied every sound wave. Upon finding Ultramod – a vintage Parisian fabric store – I felt as though I had died and gone to heaven, as the walls were covered floor to ceiling with rolls of luxurious velvet ribbon in every shade imaginable, from mauve to dusty grey. On one sturdy craftsman’s table stood a large plume of shiny black feathers that contrasted to the rainbow of burnt orange and egg plant bolts of vintage silk that adorned almost every inch of wall space that was not otherwise occupied by ribbon, thread or buttons. After purchasing a few yards – oops I mean meters – of sumptuous vintage silk, and picking out the perfect shade of thread next to the sunshine soaked windows, I decided to wander into Ultramod’s hat store located across the street. Here, dozens of wooden hat forms were accessorized with hats resembling those worn at the royal wedding. Inside, one was surrounded expansive aging wood cabinets and transformed under the dim light permeating from the antique utilitarian lighting fixtures. Sprawling shelves housed everything from folded sheets of soft alpaca hair to embroidered lace ribbon. However, most importantly the store contained wicker baskets full of simple caps to small barrettes, which one could decorate with an array of fabrics and embellishments hand-picked within the store.

Paris is a city that breathes life into the world’s art scene. Paris’ complete trust and respect in its artists gave birth to some of the most influential people. In Paris there was a general love for life and an acknowledgement of what it took to live, whether it meant following in the footsteps of Chanel, Picasso or Hemingway.