I have always loved the idea of France. Since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of seeing the Eiffel Tower, of strolling by the Seine. As I grow into my young adult years, this dream is as fruitful as ever.
When I think of France, I think of luxury and style. It brings images of girls in their chic clothes, dressed up to the nines, effortlessly fabulous. I imagine late nights on balconies, watching as people float by on the streets. France brings up thoughts of red wine and cheeseboards, chatting with friends into the early hours of the morning.
In my eyes, France wears a certain aesthetic. Her lipstick is red, her eyeliner is smudged from the night before, though she’s applied a fresh layer of mascara. Her slacks are black, the hem floating at her ankles; she wears Chanel loafers, a wool jacket thrown over a crisp white shirt, left open a few buttons, and multiple strings of jewelry draped around her neck. Her smell is sweet, a mixture of coffee, pastries, and floral perfume. She is delicate, yet there is no doubt that she could quite possibly tear you apart.
France is a place I want to be. I would love to visit, but some part of me will always want to live there. I’m sure that dream could be reached; there is no law that a person must stay in one spot, one country, forever. I have a dream of living somewhere other than the place I come from, solely for the purpose of experiencing the Other. There is so much of the world out there to travel, to experience, so why should any of us be limited to the city we come from? Traveling can be expensive, yes, but if you love something, you will always find a way to experience it.