I wasn’t kidding when I said I have countless photographs from Paris that I hadn’t shared with you yet. Nor was I being facetious when I made mention previously that flowers are an integral part of every day life in Paris. They are everywhere; there is a fleuriste on every corner, bouquets in shop windows, in people’s arms on the metro, wrapped in brown paper, and –most happily– on the mantle in my Paris apartment. My Saturday tradition to bring home a fresh bunch of peonies (and stop for breakfast at my favorite café) was one of the highlights of my time there. Any culture that makes a conscious effort to add flowers to the day-to-day simply because they’re pretty? Well, that’s something I can get behind.

I’m back to relying on my $4 bouquets from Trader Joe’s, and while I love how they brighten up my home, and that they are just a fraction of what I was spending at Monceau Fleurs or Cler Fleurs (€20 a pop!), there is something decidedly lacking in the experience now. Break out the tiny violins!

Table for one, s’il vous plaît.

Of all the endless charms Paris has on display on every unassuming corner, the omnipresent rattan bistro chairs might be my favorite. They come in a variety of colors, will leave a waffle-weave imprint on the backs of your thighs in the warmer months, and creak just so when you sit in them. They are as iconically Parisian as La Tour itself, but unlike the monument, no one rushes you out of your seat at the café. You’re almost always guaranteed to find an outdoor seat, due in no small part to the sheer number of brasseries that dot the city. And don’t be put off by les fumeurs puffing away like chimneys; I hate smelling like cigarette smoke, but never once noticed it lingering on my clothes or hair while I was there. Either French cigarettes aren’t pumped up with as many harsh additives as they are here, or I was so in love with Paris I went nose-blind.

But anyway, chairs! Or les chaises, en Français.

Here’s a fun fact about me: my license expired in December and I haven’t gotten it renewed. Now, before you think I’m breaking any laws, I cannot tell you the last time I was behind the wheel. Maybe three years ago? Four? As a perpetual city-dweller, I’ve never owned –nor felt a need for– a car. In fact, I was 20 when I finally cracked and got my license; I paid for driving lessons and went through a red light on my first one, prompting the instructor to say, “Um, okay, that was a red light. We stop at those.” I can’t drive fast, I keep my hands in the 10-and-2 position, and I get the sweats at the thought of merging. But parallel parking? I am an excellent parallel parker. At least, I was three years ago.

I’ve relied on my two legs and public transit for the majority of my life, and have never seen the appeal of paying a car payment, insurance, gas, parking, or any of the other costs that come with it. Sports cars do nothing for me. I honestly hadn’t given any thought to anything remotely vehicular since I was six, and my parents got me a bright red Ferrari for my Barbies.

And then I went to Paris. Where, while everyone relies on the metro or the buses, Parisians who have cars choose to have tiny, adorable cars. Vintage mini coopers; old, small Fiats; shiny, teensy Smart cars. No giant SUVs here, or oversized sedans people trade in every three years, no sir. Just wonderful, and wonderfully photogenic, little rides that startled me every time I saw someone emerge from one. For one of these pint-sized sets of wheels, I would happily abandon my permanent pedestrian status.

I know Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald have already sung the praises of this particular season, but there really is something to be said about Paris in the spring time. Everything is lush and green, and it’s as if the city is taking cues from the opening pages of Ludwig Bemelmans’ “Madeline”; buildings and archways are covered in vines. The last two photos are from a contender for my Favorite Street in Paris, Rue de Seine, just across from the Square Gabriel Pierné, a small park with a fountain and benches shaped like open books. I sat there one afternoon for a few hours, reading Colette and eating macarons from the Ladurée around the corner on Rue Bonaparte, and even though it was drizzling on and off, it was hands-down one of those moments that makes my Top Ten list. Though now that I say that, I’m pretty sure the other nine moments would all be memories from Paris, too.

I have a thing for Parisian doors. Some are solid wood, one story tall and painted vibrant colors, and others are smaller and have glass panes protected by intricate iron designs. I kept my eyes peeled on all my daily walks, becoming fascinated by the level of detail given to something as pedestrian as a door. It all goes back to the grand architectural efforts under Haussmann; every building needed a door, but they didn’t just slap any old door on there. Thought and care went into every detail, and there was a real desire to make things beautiful, not just useful.

Today marks three weeks since I’ve been back. Oh the tears of unbearable sadness!