...and visited Montmartre to soak up the atmosphere. I sat outside at a cafe sipping vin rouge for two hours and tasting every morsel on my plat du jour--a rare roast of beef topped with Bearnaise sauce, garlic mashed potatoes, and steamed green beans tied with a straw ribbon. C'est magnifique!
And so I took my time and felt fabulously in the moment, the September sun warming my face, the soft sibilant sounds of French voices teasing my ears. I reluctantly left this magical place and strolled up the steep stairs to Sacre Coeur and its lovely spires and dome. Spread before the cathedral like an indolent mistress was Paris.
I stopped to admire a Parisian dog, one of the thousands of well-behaved Gallic canines who quietly follow their owners or wait patiently in doorways or under a table. And then ... this drop dead gorgeous male accosted me, demanding (yes!) to draw my portrait.
I knew better of course. A seasoned traveler, I suspected I would pay richly for my impulse, which I did after some bargaining. But, oh God, he was so handsome and so mouthwateringly French, how could a full-blooded woman like me resist? He had dark mussed-up hair, long eyelashes, and that indefinable sense of style that draws your eye to every perfect detail of his clothing.
As he studied me and drew my portrait, I visually took in my fill. It was such a delicious moment, or should I say moments, since he took a long time.
The result was anticlimactic and rather amateurish. But with his awkward charcoal lines he had stretched my neck, thinned my face, and enlarged my eyes, making me look almost ethereally beautiful.
I wish I had taken his picture. But then, some memories are better left to the imagination, n'est pas?