Paris over London. A love letter to the city that I get.

London was my first love. She was complicated, moody, and endlessly demanding. For two decades, I surrendered myself to her grey skies, her endless commutes, and her relentless hustle that promised glamour but often left me exhausted. London raised me, shaped me, and gave me a taste for the world, but it was Paris that taught me how to live.

Paris is not a city you survive. It’s a city you surrender to. She doesn’t ask you to keep up; she invites you to slow down. Where London shouts, Paris whispers. In London, brunch is an industry. In Paris, it’s a croissant on the edge of a saucer, the sound of pages turning in a bookshop café, and the subtle scent of Gauloises from the next table.

The Seine has a way of pulling you in. I’ve walked her banks in the early morning, when the city is still waking up and the air smells of fresh bread. I’ve walked them at midnight, too, as the bridges glow like tiaras and lovers lean in closer, as if Paris itself encourages intimacy. That river makes you believe in possibility.

Then, there are the buildings. In London, the skyline always reaches upward, hungry for more glass and steel. In Paris, the Haussmann façades seem satisfied with their quiet beauty. I remember pressing my palm against the cool stone of a doorway in Saint-Germain, wondering how many lives must have passed through it. A million stories tucked into those walls, stories that come out if you stand still long enough to listen. London teaches ambition. Paris teaches presence.

In fashion, the two cities wear different philosophies. London is experimental, daring, and sometimes tries too hard. Paris doesn’t try at all; she simply exists. A trench coat, a silk scarf, a red lip, and somehow, she outdresses everyone without even trying. I spent years in London chasing trends, darting between shows, styling clients who wanted the latest. Paris reminded me that true style is not about newness; it’s about timelessness.

And then, there is the romance. Not just the candlelit kind, though Paris serves that with more ease than London could ever imagine. I mean the romance with everyday life. Coffee in chipped porcelain cups, golden light bouncing off Haussmann balconies at five o’clock, a stranger who looks you in the eye and says bonjour like it’s an incantation.

London will always be part of me. Her grit is woven into my bones. But Paris is the city that makes me exhale. The city that slows my steps and heightens my senses. The city that insists on beauty as a birthright, not an afterthought.

I left London with a heavy heart but a lighter soul, and I chose Paris, because in Paris, I am not just surviving. I am living.