Paris is an old romantic man. Two things distinguish him as french: a baguette under the arm and a revolutionary spirit in the chest. A bit Bohemian, a bit Jacobin, but with one motto: liberté, egualité, fraternité.
Like all men – or all lovers I should say – he has two weaknesses: absinth and women. But it is known that every Casanova has one true love.
Paris’ everlasting one is a lanky old lady with an iron soul.
In her early years, she was criticised for her avant-garde personality: a bit too strong, a bit too modern. As time went by, confidence grew and she was ready to impress. Her vanity and diversity made her famous worldwide. Now, she is a front cover diva and her photographs are plastered all over magazines and postcards.
Paris observes her everyday from dawn to dusk. For 125 years, he awaited the right moment to make his move, but the time has not come yet. She towers above him like no other. Rising to the top of the Trocadero steps would not be enough to reach her height. Maybe he will never kiss her, but from there he can enjoy her best view.
His love is secret and endless. A love that will last forever.