This post is dedicated to those that have found love, and who are still searching for it.

The alarm clock fills the 90 square meter flat with chaotic noise. Haphazardly making my way down the rickety ladder leading to my bed, I wipe my eyes of the residue that the Sand man gifted me last night.

I begin my morning routine: brushing my teeth, pouring myself a glass of orange juice, and picking out the outfit that I will wear for the day. This seems to be like any other day doesn’t it? Wrong! For starters I am living in France for four months. The main entrée? I am going to Paris for the day.

I leave my flat in a fervor and walk to the boulangerie where I have my breakfast. A pastry and a small cup of coffee, very simple. Smoking a cigarette and watching the morning traffic zoom past this small shop, I think about the things that I will see in the city of love. The Eiffel Tower? Notre Dame? The Louvre? I smile to myself thinking about how just a week ago I was living in a ‘normal’ mid-western town where everything seemed boring, and now I’m going to one of the the cultural capitals of the world.

Getting up from the table, I make my way toward the train station. Arriving at around 8 o’clock I can hear the steam from the trains and the intercom announcing arrivals and departures. I become giddy; is this really happening? I surely must be dreaming.

I’m not, and I buy my train ticket to the city of love. The train departs slowly and then begins to pick up speed, rocketing through the French country side (which, oddly, looks like the ‘normal’ mid-western town that I had left).

I arrive, and am now sitting in front of the grand cathedral: Notre Dame– an 800 year old stone building that still, to this day, puts on services. I watch as the plethora of tourists take pictures that they will proudly show their friends and family. Young couples kiss and enjoy each other’s company. Standing at the foot of the monument, I smile, then turn and begin to walk on the river Seine.

I find myself next at one of the most famous bookstores in the world: Shakespeare and Company. It was here, in the 1920s, that famous writers and artists such as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Pablo Picasso mingled. Walking into the shop, you can feel the history, smell the paper, and taste the ink on every page in every book. I pick up a copy of my favorite book: The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac, and a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls by none other than Ernest Hemingway.

Meandering through the streets of Paris, I came upon the Louvre: the king of all museums. Thousands of tourists roam the grounds of this once great Palace. The aura that this place projects is pure and unadulterated knowledge. I do not go in; that is for another day. Instead, I just sit in the courtyard and watch couples take selfies, and give their significant other the occasional peck on the cheek.

Watching this makes my stomach turn, but it is from that fact that I am famished, not because I am disgusted by this display of affection. There should be a cafe by the Eiffel Tower, no?

I am now in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, the symbol of Paris. I gaze upon the 300 meter wrought iron monolith that is known to just about everyone in the world. At this point, I believe that I have walked all over Paris. Taken side streets, drank a pint at a café, sipped on some rosé, and taken a picture at every popular landmark that this city has to offer. I have also passed by countless couples, many kissing and basking in the love they have for one another. Even now, I see couples holding each other and laying beneath the Parisian sun. I am envious, but not loathing. I know that if you were here, we would do the same thing.

So to ma amour, I say: I yearn for the day that we can take the side streets together. I cannot tell you how much I wish to share a bottle of wine with you at a café. I dream of the day that we can walk hand in hand at the Louvre and see priceless paintings together. The city of love is just a city without you. I am counting the days.

Signed,

Hemingway’s Ghost