I thought I was dreaming the first time I woke up in Paris. The simplicity of the rustic, untreated wooden floors and the white walls of our apartment inspired my artistic nature. Paris and our studio appeared as a blank canvas in need of painting. The city called for our presence, and the walls begged for photographs of our adventures. I dressed in slim trousers many shades deeper than the gray of the sky. My purple cashmere sweater brightened up the studio in the absence of the sun's rays. I opened the double doors to the balcony and stepped outside. Many of the shutters on the windows within view were still closed. I felt accomplished in my triumph of rising at a decent hour. We had visited the Eiffel Tower, now faintly visible beyond the rooftops, the night before. It had glowed and so had we. A glimpse of the still tower in the daylight confirmed that Paris was not a dream, but rather real life.