You would think, with Paris as a backdrop and a film contract signed by people whose names alone could bend time and space, that I'd feel like the star of my own romantic movie. But you try maintaining the mystery of cinematic Paris after your fifth consecutive morning being woken at six by hotel construction, and see how poetic you feel.
Today, the city outside my window was all scaffolding and shouts, dust motes dancing through sunlight while a jackhammer performed its one-note symphony on the sidewalk below. I considered hurling a croissant in protest except I'd already eaten it, and carbs are sacred when you're running on three hours' sleep.
This is the real Paris. The glamorous one's on the postcards.
