Today, I wore a dress. And it’s kinda see-through and I’m a classy lady, so underneath I wore the little red skirt my mom sewed for me, too. It poked out just enough to be tasteful– sweet, even.

Also I wore perfume because my luggage (FINALLY) came in. It’s not flamboyant or anything: my scent comes in a little 4 inch clear vase, with a quaint flat stopper adorning five pale pink flower petals sealed into the lid. It’s Elizabeth Arden, I think. It makes the old guys go nuts and the cute boys wonder why I remind them of their grandma. It’s the best (the fragrance, not attracting old men).

I wore a floppy hat because it was really sunny. It’s a beautiful hat; like most beautiful hats it was meant to be worn more. It seemed a puppy that had never given up hope of being noticed, even when I’d ignore it or given it a quick apologetic look before bolting out the door. It was so forgiving, so happy for a walk, and so ready for light.

I had a purse, yes…

But also I had a beige handle-bag that matched my sandals and hat, in which—carefully cradled by the folded napkins and petite bamboo mat insisted upon by my host mom—lay nestled the two baquetted-ham sandwiches that I made that morning for Irene and my picnic in the botanical gardens.

Basically I was a firework of femininity exploding with gallons of girliness.

And I guess all I feel like saying is…

It’s a nice change. I didn’t hop on train and head out to Spain today. I didn’t fly a plane or jump off a cliff. I didn’t even order something incorrectly.

No, today I just….felt pretty.

France makes me feel pretty.

That’s something.

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