One day you’ll wake up to soft white sheets and a tired whisper in your ear. You’ll wake up to packed suitcases and a warm hand, a cold morning and some hot coffee. You’ll travel in car, on plane, on foot, only to arrive in a country that hums in a different language. Your heart settles and your ears sharpen and your eyes soften and your hand grasps and suddenly your wanderlust has stuck and stuck hard in a country you’d only expected to imagine. Your suitcase chuckles as you pull it along behind you on the cobblestone but the music of the city blurs it out. Days pass and they pile up and you’ve lived vibrantly and brilliantly in clothing that is as beautiful and soft and huge as the Parisian lifestyle you’ve accommodated yourself to. Your thoughts have been saturated with a culture that feels new and old at the same time. You have been saturated by the taste of a life you’d wished was permanent, by the taste of your love’s lips sweet with wine by the Seine, by bitter coffee that warmed your hands and heart, by the taste of the air at the top of the Eiffel Tower. You have wrapped your heart with the city and you have cloaked yourself in clothes that are as vibrant as the culture you fell for, so when you go to sleep in clean sheets with a tired whisper in your ear, you know you’ll be okay.