I've been to Paris three times, and I don't know if it's the city of love or if love should occur there like magic.  All I know is that I love Paris.  I love the cafés and the "expresso" and the streets and the people and the funky plumbing.

Maybe I can love it so much because my French is so poor that I don't always understand everything I hear and that insulates me from what is truly going on.  Maybe I like being in a place that is redolent with history and time and life and not clearly be there because no language is rooting me to the mundane.  It's like a dream.

No other city has captured me, no city in any other country.  I have not made an exhaustive study of other cities in countries where I don't speak the languages, but for now, Paris is it.

I haven't been to Paris since 2005, and I haven't been there without my former life surrounding me.  I haven't been there alone and I haven't been there with a man other than my husband at the time.  I've been there with my mother and my children and my children's friends.

So today, my boyfriend left very early for work, but he gave me my Valentine card, and it's a 1920's view of the Eiffel Tower, the woman in flapper gear in silhouette before it. 

When you finally know someone, you know what they love, the things they love and want and need.  For him to give me a tiny piece of what I love--something that is not attached to him in any way--is loving.  I, myself, have a hard time disconnecting Paris from my life before, but he wanted me to have a little of it back.

That's love.  And we aren't even in Paris.

Happy Valentine's Day to you all!  May there be all kinds of signs of love everywhere!  Big and small.

Jessica