21

When I was 21, I lived just outside Paris.

It was the most wonderful thing.

My roommate and I had our own wing of a house in Croissy-Sur-Seine. We would ride the RER red line into the city every morning for class, which was held around the corner from the Centre Pompidou. Except for Art History class. That class was held in museums, usually the Louvre, but also the Orsay, Marmotan, Picasso museum and the Rodin sculpture garden. We bought nutella crepes from street vendors for €2.50 and ham and butter sandwiches from the boulangeries for €1.50. We would check our email at the American Library and sometimes do research there for a class. We would ride the train back home at night, past the illuminated monuments of La Tour Eiffel and the Arch de la Defense.

Our study abroad group went on trips by bus and train all around Europe. Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, Italy. We went to Provence, Normandy, Giverny and the valley of castles.

Our ward met for church in Versailles, and I helped out in the nursery. I gave a talk once in church near the end of my time there. It was the best French I have ever spoken and I thought that must have been what it would have felt like to be a missionary.

It was in Paris that I decided to change my Humanities emphasis from French teaching to Art History. I wanted to hold onto the feeling of being surrounded by beauty and significance. I wanted to have every excuse possible to lurk in museums and analyze film and talk about architecture.

I met some of my dearest friends in Paris. It's amazing how you can spend almost 4 months in such close quarters with people and still find that you wish you had more time together. And still feel that way almost 10 years later.

In all seriousness and without an ounce of exaggeration, to me, everything about Paris was wonderful. I could have stayed there forever. I would move back there in a heartbeat and take my family with me. My heart loves Paris.