I was in advanced French in high school, a very green sixteen, when I told my French teacher I was going to live in Paris one day. She looked down her square rimmed glasses and asked why. Because I love it there, I answered in text book français. Have you ever been before? Mais, non! Then how do you know you will love it? I just will, I responded stubbornly.
My first trip to France was later that year, an optional school trip. I’d saved the money to go by tele-canvassing for the liver foundation and working a retail job part time. When my father found out I was holding down two jobs in my final year of high school, he was so outraged, he coughed up whatever money I was missing.
La Belle France did not disappoint. The shops were beautiful; all the designers I’d…
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