It was a gray wintry November when I went to Paris. I stayed with a French friend at an old, quaint one studio apartment in Bastille-one that a winding wooden staircase up to the fifth floor of the apartment. That winter, I reveled in cheese, red wine and microwave dinners while watching Weeds (with French subtitles of course!) and Dexter episodes, back to back. I bought myself a pair of boots and trudged through the slush of snow with it. I was content and quite delightfully happy.