Right in the center, with a Notre Dame staring down on you as you shove off. Slightly worried as you begin your adventure, she’s the Italian mama you never had, large, with heavy busom swaying back and forth. As you venture away she gazes on with tear-filled eyes and you tremble at your own daring, run forward a few hundred feet only to rush back and bury your face in her breasts, drinking in the familiar smell of her. It is that smell that you will carry with you as you travel. Drawing pictures of yourself upright and independant, each day they will get more elaborate with newer and more exotic backdrops, Strasbourg, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Slovenia…. But it is her smell that is curled tightly in your belly for eternity and you will return to her and lay your head in her lap as you tell of your travels, sometimes in joyous excitement while other times in melancholy musing about time that passes too fast. She will caress your hair and smile down at your innocent drama-infused tales, reassured and reassuring in your homecoming. Yes, Paris is where all travels should begin and end.