If I lived in Paris, I would never close the windows.

The traffic noise below my apartment would become the soundtrack of my early mornings, my lazy afternoons, and my midnight snacks. My apartment would be old with generations of white paint, brass knobs, and creaky floors.

During winter or rain, I’d make tea in my white cup with the little painting of a poodle on it, not the larger mug because that one I’d save for hot chocolate.

In Paris, I would take my tea black with one lump of sugar and the bag would dangle in the cup until the last drop.

I would read real books, eat falafel, and wear kneesocks. My bike would have a basket, and I would buy fresh flowers and bread every Thursday from the shops on my way home from the museum where I worked.

Every day, at least once a day, I would eat cheese off the small cutting board on the kitchen counter. Apple or pear to go with it and great crackers. There’d be great crackers.

I’d drink too much wine and walk for miles.

If I lived in Paris, I would wear jeans, clogs, and soft sweaters. I’d have a coat the color of the sunshine and more scarves than bills.

I would have just enough and give stuff away before too-much ruined everything.

We’d hold hands in Paris, kiss with cold noses, and talk for hours about finally starting an herb garden on the patio or our theories about what actually goes on in the apartment above ours.

In Paris, the only phone would be on the wall, and I would always have extra blankets because the windows are open and you get cold.

Except in the summer.

Summers in Paris would be ice cream, people watching and hats. I’d wear a big hat in the summer and the last Saturday of every month we’d watch the old men race toy boats on Jardin des Tuileries.

I would enjoy the tourists from around the world during the warm months and never complain about having to pick up extra tours at the museum.

You’d bring home treasures from the markets. We would eat dinner at our round table for two until the candles burned down and then watch a French film and eat blackberry pie. We would tease about who’s learning the language faster and you would win, of course.

When the kids came to visit we’d set them up around the living room to sleep and take them to dinner at the Thai place with the pink tablecloths.

If I lived in Paris, I’d keep learning, paint my nails red and leave a light on above the stove before bed.

That’s all from the laundry room. Bonne nuit.

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