If you catch me daydreaming, I'm most likely back in France.
If you ask me what parts of my August trip I'm thinking about, I'd first mention the clouds. Oh, the clouds! Dense and fluffy and enormous, leaving the sky more white than blue.
There were, of course, the endless Parisian dinners that began with gorgeous, rustic breads and milky butter tickled with a pinch of fleur de sel. My family and I eagerly traversed arrondissements for flawless pastries and luscious pralines. Undeterred by the city's sporadic showers, we ducked under an awning to survey the open market's colorful spread; we left with handfuls of tart, one-bite plums and wild strawberries. At night, Paris' rain-slicked streets looked beautiful reflecting lights and neon.
In Nice, we took the Metro to its famous beaches. The rails blended seamlessly with the cobblestone and grass, a striking balance of modern and old. We walked the snaking streets in Avignon, Provence, and little medieval towns far and between, discovering darling boutiques and musing over the old works in museums. I think my favorite landmark was Cezanne's last house, a modest, two-story studio with loft windows and a lot of his old things. The space felt sacred.
Saint-Tropez was humid and inundated with suntanned visitors who dressed to be seen, but nothing seemed more intimate than a walk along the pier as the sun dipped below the horizon, its rays almost oily against the water.
If you ask me about my little vacation, I'll gab on for half an hour. So ask to see my polaroids instead. (Hover over the image for details)