oscar wilde once said ‘when good americans die, they go to paris’. i’m not sure if he was making a mockery of us, or saying paris only welcomes americans with good taste — or something else entirely. it’s hard to tell with mister wilde sometimes. but honestly, i’d be alright dying (at a ripe old age) in paris. i can picture myself slightly bent, slowly strolling the streets, towing my wicker market cart behind me and wearing some grand old hat, vintage chanel, and worn-in oxfords. i fantasize about living in paris an awful lot, so who knows? maybe one day. maybe a lot of us dream of that for ourselves, so today this is for all of us francophiles. oui.
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