"Iron Swirls" by elizabeth steele

With a vintage suitcase and a floral carry-on bag.  A short waisted coat and a belted dress.  Looking up at the hotel as the cab driver pulls away...

taking it all in.

 The concierge looks up my reservation and refers to me as "Miss".  He gives me my door pass and points towards the elevator while giving me directions in his thick French accent.  

Inside the elevator, (which is gold and brown and elegant),  I watch as the numbers light up, one by one, above the double doors and then watch it stop at number 5.  

Down the hall I go, with my suitcase and carry on and a skip in my step.

I place the key card in the slot, and push the handle down.

The room says hello with the coziest of fashions.

 A flower duvet on the double bed.  The matching pillowcases cover down pillows which are fluffed against the white wainscoted headrest.

A china cup and saucer are thoughtfully placed with a small vase of pansies on the night stand.

The cream frosted lamp is lit, giving the room the loveliest softest hue. 

 Rod iron swirls of the balcony await, as the  sheer curtain lifts in the breeze against the gorgeous glass doors.

A writing desk and softly upholstered chair beckons to come to sit and write.

Something I hope to do lots of while here.

I plop down onto the bed, carefully remove my heels and take a long, deep breath.

Paris.

I knew someday I'd be here.