Dreaming of a small cafe in Paris in the fall,

Wandering the streets at leisure and 

Finding beautiful places to read and write.

But this isn’t Paris.

Dreams of walking along the cobblestones

In my favorite sneakers or my

Snazzy little brown ankle boots instead of

Wet shoes

On hot pavement

And hours in traffic with people I barely know after 5 & ½ years.

And this isn’t Paris.

Catacombs, the Louvre, and the Eiffel Tower as autumn leaves fall around me.

A beautiful solo trip.

Time to slow down, appreciate my life and take the time to know myself.

To smile in the rain

But this cramped 15-passenger van that smells like my drunk step-grandpa

And the way the humidity makes you adore the AC,

The way they go about this vacation in a non-stop flow of insanity and hundred-degree heat,

The way I don’t want to get in the water,

The way I’m protecting these pages with my life, for fear of someone reading them,

And the way the virgin Pina Coladas make me think this is somewhat bearable, 

All of this,

Just serves as a reminder that 

this isn’t Paris.

But maybe, in my dreams, it could be.