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stride across the courtyard, through the door, and into my
room, where I'd read Game of Thrones and talk to my
friends in the States. I was in France - something I'd
dreamed of for half of my life - but I was dreaming of the
comfort-zone of home.

Paris was a revelation.

I looked like a tourist, not because of my clothing, or
because I spoke English, but because my face was always
turned up in wonder, a bud trying to soak up every ray of
sun while it could. People say Paris is a dirty city, but I
didn't see the refuse in the streets. I saw in reality what
my heart had been imagining for years - steep spires, the
grey river bordered by ancient cobblestones, graceful
places, wrought-iron gates - layers upon layers of paint
straining forth from its canvas.

And there, surprisingly, was Emile, stepping out of
the Bourgogne backdrop to become somehow intertwined
in my waking dream. He saw my face blossoming in
wonder, and he nourished my curiosity carefully.
"Regard," he'd say, his head poised above my shoulder,
the better to aim his words at my ear, pointing with one
hand while the other rested lightly on my shoulder or the
small of my back. What he showed me took Paris out of
my childish dream world and into reality. I stood in a
living, breathing, imperfect city, a work of art made more
astonishing in its flaws - and I was lucky to bear witness.

It was on the way home from Paris that I fell in love
with Dijon. My eyes had been opened in Paris, and in a
moment of almost giddy comprehension, I understood
that they could stay open. Here in front of me,

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