Parisian or Parmesan?

The second you leave home it starts demanding that you tell a story. 

Summary: Winter 2015, Zachary David Hurley, fashion blogger, single dad of three, gluten-free food enthusiast, part time ninja and cucumber. The crowded place de la Republique, pigeon-marked dull-lettered bronze plaques, fromages and saucisses,  lightly-coated-flour baguettes, fashionably distressed mademoiselles, italian accent night, soul-craving joints, disarrayed skeleton remains, incredulous sips of coffee and loud Bonsoir exclamations.

Together, wine filled bodies, worn feet aches, we followed the soothing movements of boats on the Seine. Instead of ticking things off lists or collecting half hearted semi treasures to be placed in dusty drawers in empty rooms, we roamed the streets to find grounds, palaces, empty metro seats, overprices lugshury shops we could not afford and quiet parks where we sat and dismissed the passing time, spun in the city’s web till we surrendered, content to be spent and consumed. 

Then, as the sun went down and the night skies filled with promise, the mutation process began. What under daylight might have looked like two humans, or even models as the bottom row of the tinder-pyramid have inquired repetitively, morphed at night into two snuggie-d gluttons whose bodies are composed of 90% water and 10% digestion-organic-pepermint-tea infused cookies (or sugar bites of happiness).

All in all: