The blog, apart from a space where I share recipes and thoughts about food, has also been something of a diary for me; when I revisit old posts, looking the photos and texts I’ve shared here, I’m able to retrace my steps and remember. And I want to remember the past couple of days.

This weekend has been filled with sorrow, anger and despair, but also with joy and hope. The murder of innocent people is horrible, unfair and shocking, no matter where it takes place. But the attacks on Paris had a profound effect on me. See, I love Paris with all my heart, with a naive and dorky romanticism I haven’t been able to shake no matter how many times I visit. It’s by far my favourite destination and every time I think of it, the city signifies for me love and carelessness. I have friends who were born in Paris, who have family there, who work there. I have been there with boyfriends, friends and on my own. I’ve had my heart almost broken, I’ve eaten terribly stinky cheese with one of my oldest friends in his tiny apartment near the Notre-Dame; I’ve gotten lost in the metro and have had one of my best friends come out to me during PFW. I’ve stormed out of a restaurant, tried to put drunk friends into taxis, I’ve roamed the empty streets near the Opéra at 8am on a Sunday looking for breakfast. And I’ve always felt safe and on top of the world there.

The last time I was in Paris was last December (when this photo was taken), blissfully in love and celebrating a friend’s birthday with some of my closest friends. The few days we spent there were filled with love and laughter, too much food and wine and most of all, a sense familiarity and a fondness I usually reserve for places I’ve called home.

So I can’t help but be filled with love these past couple of days. Love for the beautiful city which has given me so many memories and for its people. And sorrow and anger. And fear. But mostly love. So I’ll spare you any other thoughts, I’ll refrain from any judgement or analysis and leave you with love.