"Paris called and said your Ringarde"

Paris called and said your ringarde" is like the quick sketch I doodled after my maiden voyage to the city, courtesy of a French rapper I randomly bumped into at a music fest the week prior.

Now, I could have waltzed into Paris whenever I pleased, but this was the golden moment. He was fluent in French, promised a grand tour of the real Paris – you know, the secret spots only the locals know.

Well, turns out, that grand tour was more of a quick sprint.

The Louvre - ringarde. The Eiffel Tower - ringarde. Even the quaint French café where my literary idols Baldwin and the legendary Josephine Baker once shared a meal - ultra ringarde.

Now, don't get me wrong, I get it. It's like jetting off to New York, meeting a true-blue New Yorker, and then insisting on spending an afternoon in Times Square. But hey, you still do it, right? He kept reminding me that if my love for reading ran that deep, perhaps his brother, a fellow bookworm, might be a more fitting match. Oh, the drama, the irony, all set against the enchanting backdrop of the City of Love. Paris, you sly matchmaker, you.