Every time I walk by a crêperie and catch a whiff of fresh crêpe, I’m immediately transported back to those magical nights in Paris.
Strangely enough, I haven’t eaten a single crêpe since returning from France. Deep within, I fear that I will ache for Paris that much more. I don’t want to live my life longing to be elsewhere.
I distinctly recall one night when my company and I had oxtail stew on couscous in the most random little night spot. I threw back a bottle of decent wine while the DJ pumped the best hip hop I’ve heard in a long time. I shut my eyes, felt the music under my skin, and lamented all the top 40 that DJs play (not spin) back home.
The best (or worst) part was that the DJ poured his heart into his music even though the room was next to empty. I told him in my broken French how much I appreciated his passion and he kindly gave me his mixed CD, which I still listen to.
We shut the place down and proceeded to stroll around aimlessly, snapping silly night shots. That’s when that sweet scent of crêpe cooking on the street forever stamped into my mind. My eyes met with the the street vendor’s, who was pouring batter onto the crêpe griddle.
He beckoned. I complied.
My remaining braincells cried, “Nutella banana crêpe, I must have you”.
My most precious travel memories are these small moments that are insignificant to anyone else. I can only describe it as a moment of complete contentment, where I felt I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Whenever I listen to that CD in or see steam rise from a crêpe griddle, I bite my lip with a smile to suppress the bitter-sweet yearning inside.
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