All good Americans go to Paris when they die. Thomas Appleton, a 19th century American rich-boy, artist/writer/arts lover, said that.

It may be because I'm reading David McCullough's new book The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris or that I'm watching Julie/Julia right now or just my general neuroses but I've been nostalgic for ma belle ville more than usual lately. Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic, but Paris is always a dull ache in a small corner of my heart. Something always pulls me back to that city. And I'm not the only one. According to McCullough's book, thousands and thousands of Americans crossed the Atlantic to see and learn in the City of Lights in the 19th century. Many went back again and again, while other just staid.

More than anything I want Appleton to be right, or I guess not quite that far but I think if my version of heaven could have a slightly cleaner Paris, where the metro always runs on time because the workers never are on strike and I'm never without someone's hand to hold whilst strolling in Parc Monceau and I could live in the Musee Rodin . . .well I think I'd be vachement contented. But I suppose more than that I want to go be the good American who goes there again while she's still living. I've never been in a city that I felt more immediately at home in. I was comfortable as soon as the jet lag wore off. Is it possible to fall in love with a city? I never thought much of Paris as a teenager or really at all until I applied to study there. I thought it was the city that people pretended was wonderful and put into bad teen movies about vespas and twins and fashion. Which of course, it absolutely is not. But in some ways, it was like it was meant to be. Now that I've put enough vaseline on the lens of the camera filming this post, so everything is misty and glowing, I suppose I only have one thought: read Mr. McCullough's book. Eat it up like chevre and chocolat. And then go get a private French tutor . . .I know I probably should.