Different, not better

I overheard a British (frumpy looking) woman on the metro rattling her opinions regarding the superiority of the Parisian metro to that of the London tube. Apparently, as I picked up from the conversation, you can get you across Paris (a, in her own words, small and navigable city) in under 40 minutes. Which stands as a massive contrast to London, so she continued, which could very well take up to two hours to cross via public transportation. 

Oh, the grass is always greener on the other side.

Except that's not right, at all. The grass is merely different, not greener, on the other side

I'm standing on the edge of the hill of Montmartre, the massive white basilica of Sacre Coeur towering behind. And as I stare out, fixated by the shimmer of lights amid the dusk glaze of the city below, a trickle of complacency overtakes. I love this city, a love that developed in the most natural of senses and gradual of ways possible. Paris is nothing of what I expected, nothing of what I had pictured. And as a result, I've gotten to know Paris past the superficial of the appearance and into its weave of personality.

I love the grass here. It's good, but not better. Merely different-- special and beautiful in its own unique Parisian manner. 

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