Do you go to Paris to see the Eiffel or the Notre Dame or to get lost in the Louvre in search of the elusive Mona Lisa? Or For the baguettes and macarons? I go to sit on the wicker chairs sipping on a long coffee or a an ice cold Coca-Cola in a retro glass bottle looking at chic fashion passing by, posing for no one in particular, under the shadows of the tasteful Parisian balconies overhead, interspersed with the odd dog walkers, French bull dogs included, or the casual shoppers still in their night dress, with a nibbled on baguette jutting out of their plastic shopping bags from the nearby boulangerie. I see the wonderfully eclectic mix of cultures courtesy of the French ruler past, of how the couscouseries are to be found next to shops dishing out steaming pho, the waft of horizontally rotating succulent poulet roti in the boucherie mixing in so casually with that of the vertically rotating chunks of mixed durum from the Lebanese joint, and how all of this food works incredibly well with the spicy hit of an African Scotch Bonnet dip on the side. To travel with them as they all jam like a Terrine into the full to the brim trams and the dated Metropolitan Subway, the micro crumbs of croissants and crusty bread heavy in the air, to travel from the modest outskirts of the sprawling metropolis, with it's tiny as can be apartments, to the royally opulent centre of the city, for a stroll along the scenic banks of the Seine or to sprawl under the sun in the expansive greens of the Hôtel des Invalides, watching the world pass by in their Citroëns. I love to rummage, without intent of purchase, through the random bric-a-brac at one of it's many flea markets, where you'll find everything from still functioning cameras from times of yore, adjacent to delicate bone china from the Victorian era, bright African clothing in stark colors in all hues from parrot green to a tangerine orange guaranteed to get you a second look on the streets, all next to shady African street vendors selling almost real fakes of all high-end latest designer handbags all showcased on a quick wrapping bedsheet and jute rope based setup laid on the ground, ready to scramble at any indication of the much despised French police. As you must, I indulge in the cuisses de grenouilles (frog legs), and escargots (snails), and the not to be missed steak frites saturated in a mystery green sauce to feel categorically French, wrapping up meals by satisfying sweet cravings with delectable dense chocolate eclairs or the tarter than normal citron tarts, all showcased so beautifully in the jewelry shop like bakeries, in presentation and prices alike, of the French capital. There's an universally agreed upon innate romanticism in Paris and in everything it represents, so much so that you cannot possibly describe it in words mundane and ordinary.