The Parisienne
I've packed my stuff into my luggage, and as I stuffed all the autumn clothes in, I come to think about the ten days I spent in Paris. My friend and travel buddy C and I just discussed which city was out favorite and undoubtedly, Paris comes first.
There's just something about it that is so mysterious, so unpredictable and curious. Like its streets, you never really know where it ends and where it begins.
Paris is a woman, that we all know for sure. The Parisienne will seem snobbish at first, and quiet but always confident. Her hair is never perfectly brushed but her lipstick is perfectly lined. She smells faintly of Chanel and her bag is amazing but never with a blatant logo. Parisiennes aren't big on logos on themselves. She doesn't mind making out with her husband or her lover under the bistro's yellow lights.
She takes the metro despite hating it --- puffing a smoke in between rides and walks. She does her nails sometimes in the train, her petite bag resting on her lap containing some fruit she picked up from the marche.
There's not a Parisienne who looks the look of self loathing, that I'm sure of. I've never seen female populace who has the male population around her fingers as the Parisiennes do. Everywhere they go, it's the men who are entranced more and never the other way around.
The Parisienne never goes losyang. Even the elderly Parisiennes have that air of elegance and confidence that seem to garner the respect of the younger ones. They're not just respectable, they even seem sexier.
And, yes, no one is fat. I stand corrected.