In Paris charm does not drip from antique faucets; it comes like a deluge from the quaint cafés and centuries-old restaurants. It floods along the historic sites and the fashionable boutiques. It flows by the street vendors and specialty markets. But to me Paris is an infinite universe filled with so much more than those lovely (and loveable) clichés. To me Paris is home, it is my city. Paris is the only city in the world that you can claim for yourself. Whether it is the solitude granted to you by French culture or the stoic manner in which amusements in Paris seem to go, Paris is intimately yours.
I find it incredibly fascinating that given the amazing cast of characters (the writers, emperors, generals, artists, and thinkers) that have lived in Paris throughout history, it is the people of Paris today that are the most interesting. But Paris just shrugs it off and continues to stroll through life, doing so without the braggadocio that one would expect. Paris possesses the quaintest of French traits: to be constantly enamoured with yourself yet simultaneously filled with doubt and reflection.