When imagination meets reality

The first time I saw the Eiffel Tower I fell in love. I thought it was the most beautiful Tower ever created in the history of the universe. Who cares, about the pyramids, they’re just blocks made out of stone, somewhere in the desert. The Eiffel Tower was perfect. It was a representation of the most beautiful language, spoken by the most beautiful people in the world, who wear berets and eat baguettes everyday for breakfast. The French culture became something I had to discover. I started to dislike my own country, and idealize La France. I was seven years old.
One day I was listening to Alizée and I realized how jealous I am of her beautiful accent. She could have been singing about farmers gathering their crop, or about going to the supermarket to pick up fresh groceries, but it still would have sounded as if she was telling me a secret, encouraging me to follow her on an adventure. That day, as I was lying down on my bed with headphones in, trying hopelessly to repeat her words, I knew that French was the language to my soul.
Everyone has this one weird liking, or a fancy, however you want to name it, that just makes him or her go crazy without fully understanding why. My best friend loves the smell of coconut. She once dated a guy, just because of his coconut shampoo. He changed his shampoo to a peach flavor, and that was the end of their relationship. My other friend loves Spanish. The sound of the language, the culture, the people, the food. I’m sure she would also claim that the air smelled better, the sand on Spanish beaches was softer, and that the tap water was better than the tap water here. She probably wouldn’t even mind Spanish spiders as much as the American ones. What am I saying, she would probably love them! She is as crazy about Spain, as I am about France. France is just better, and that is it. I can’t explain it, don’t ask me.
The first time I saw the Eiffel Tower with my own eyes, I couldn’t see it very well. I was taking a metro from the bus terminal to my apartment, and it was already dark outside. The next day I saw it again – from a park nearby, in Belleville. The day was foggy and rainy, so I didn’t see much. The first time I saw it up-close I was very emotional. Finally! I took pictures from every angle possible. They all looked terrible, and did not reflect my perception of it at all. In the end, does it really matter how good my pictures were? My memories are still vivid in my head.