Not so many moons ago, I found myself in Paris while backpacking across Western Europe. I fell in love with all that it was, old and lovely and oh so Paris. I wandered the streets, climbed the Eiffel Tower, and swooned over the pâtisseries. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a well-appointed baked good. I ate pastries with absolute relish. I fell head over heels for crêpes too hot to bite into. Languored over pain au chocolat and bowls of coffee. And then there were the macarons. Whole towers of them, winking and enticing me from the glistening windows of Ladurée. They were just the most exquisite, perfect little bites of joy that I had ever sank my teeth into. I dream about them to this day.
A couple of moons later, I found myself in Paris again. This time, it was a blink of the eye- a layover on my way to Rome (don't I just sound so glamorously jet setting? ha!). We were held up in customs forever, and I had just enough time to grab a Vogue from the newsstand in my terminal before my flight took off. There would be no macarons this trip. Sorrows over the absentee macarons were swiftly drowned in copious amounts of gelato, and all was well and forgotten. For the moment.
The other day, my delightful aunt returned from Paris with a little gift. I am a happy girl.