I’m having way too much fun with this. If I could go back in time to last February, I’d start a blog called “My Inner French Girl” because if you think about it, it would accomplish the exact same thing as this one: endless pictures of Paris, drooling over macarons, all-white European apartments, and a (un)healthy dose of Gary Oldman for good measure. Man, if only, right?
This week my Inner French Girl is going out for a casual stroll. I don’t think she has a job, because it’s a Thursday and she’s got no where to be. No, I’m not living vicariously through her or anything. I don’t wish that one day my life will include walking along the Seine to the Grand Palais for no other reason than I want to see it, why? Why would I want a life that includes stopping into my local bakery and picking up a crusty baguette and wandering where the day may take me, the Eiffel Tower always in my view? God, that sounds horrible.
I legitimately want everything in this picture. That tank top, the cardigan, the shoes, the bag, the umbrella, and most of all the baguettes. I could subsist solely on French baked goods if someone would let me. My dad actually bought me that journal years ago for Christmas. It’s Italian and the pages are bordered with this beautiful hand-dyed marbled paint. It’s really spectacular and I should start writing in it. My Inner French Girl writes in hers. She sits on a bench in Parc Monceau and nibbles on her baguette while she jots down little observances. Un homme et son chien amble by and he smiles warmly at her. It starts to rain lightly so she puts her notebook and what’s left of her baguette in her bag, pops open her umbrella and heads home.