Sometimes I’m too good at keeping secrets. Well, okay not secrets but I’m really good at keeping stuff to myself. It can be a good thing but sometimes I feel like the people around me don’t know the the “real me” and then I realize it’s because I don’t often share that part of me. Don’t worry, I’m not going to start spilling the gory details of my life for the of the web to see but I’ll let you in on a few things.

Obviously it’s no secret that I am obsessed in love with Paris.

But maybe you didn’t know that I went to Paris for the first time when I was 19 years old.

And you probably don’t know that on that trip to Paris I bought an old house key at a flea market because one day I wanted to have a door (and home) of my own in the city.

And I know you don’t know that I’ve carried that key around ever since.

You also probably might not know that one of my only souveniers from that trip (besides a few photos and a bottle of Coke) is a page I ripped out of the phone book.

And there is no way you would know that I ripped out the “D” page because the boy I “loved” was a D name and I imagined us living there together with our names on that page.

Okay that last one was embarrassing.

But there you have it – my Paris secrets.