Paris- France

72 Hours in Paris. From the moment my train slid into Gare du Nord, the city felt both familiar and new, like returning to a conversation I wasn’t quite finished with. It was my third time in Paris, yet somehow it felt like the first. The city never repeats itself — it only reveals another layer.

In just 72 hours, Paris unfolded like a living poem elegant, imperfect, and endlessly alive. The Eiffel Tower shimmered at dusk, its lights scattering across the Seine as my boat drifted beneath its iron grace. While the sun set, jazz notes floated over the water soft, sultry, timeless as if the city itself was exhaling music. Along the riverbanks, laughter mingled with melody, and I caught the scent of warm crêpes in the cool evening breeze.

Saturday morning found me in the Jardin du Luxembourg sunlight filtering through chestnut trees, children sailing tiny boats across the pond, Parisians lost in quiet rituals of coffee, croissants, and conversation. In Saint-Germain, time moved differently. Painters, poets, and ghosts of jazz still lingered in the corners of old cafés.

Afternoons blurred into golden hours: art and aperitifs, footsteps over bridges, the echo of street musicians near Île Saint-Louis. Inside the Louvre, I stood before centuries of beauty and realized in Paris, even silence has style.

On my final night, the city glowed. Café lights flickered like constellations, the Seine reflected every dream, and the Eiffel Tower danced once more against the velvet sky.

Paris didn’t need to roar. It whispered softly, effortlessly je t’aime. Three visits, three chapters, one feeling that never fades:
I’ll always return.- Anouk Sasssen