I love Stanford as much as the next person. It’s been said a thousand times before, but living here really is like being in a wonderful, shiny bubble. We take classes from world-famous professors; we worry about things like the existence of epiphenomenal qualia and the role of women in medieval literature; we’re surrounded by palm trees and abstract sculptures. Everything here is surreal in the best sense of the word.

So as the last days of winter quarter were winding down, I began to feel a little anxious about going abroad because, more than anything, I love spring and Stanford is as good a place as any (actually, better than most) to spend these three months. It’s the one time of the year when Stanford lives up to its reputation as the happiest university in the world. The weather is perfect, the flowers are in bloom and, suddenly, everything seems possible. You can wake up to the sound of birds chirping, spend all day lounging around that weird red fountain in front of Green or go swimming in the Claw.

I felt a pang of nostalgia when I realized I would have to wait another whole year before once again seeing springtime at Stanford. But as I continued reminiscing, I realized that, as wonderful, beautiful and relaxing as it is, it’s also a little monotonous.

I have my comfortable routine—which mainly involves hanging around the Moonbeans area, rubbing elbows with the smokers and European grad students (who are often one and the same). I love laying out on the grass with a good book or enjoying one of those delicious Moonbeans’ ham and cheese croissants, but it gets boring.

It’s always the same people doing the same things. I’ve gotten to know nearly all of the regulars of the Meyer-Green area and, as much as I love bumping into friends and getting sidetracked by unplanned three-hour coffee breaks, the excitement of Stanford is gone.

During the Saturday night before Dead Week (the last real Saturday of winter quarter), a few friends and I sat out in the rocking chairs on the porch at Casa Italiana and watched the Row weekend scene wind down. It was so hilariously predictable: Groups of scantily clad girls stumbling home in four-inch heels and drunk guys hollering at each other, throwing shoes at trees. The only excitement of the night was when a group of people stopped in front of the house, carrying three large block letters. (I think they were an A, an L and an N. But it was dark; I can’t be sure.) Suddenly, one of them grabbed the L and took off running toward the post office. The others shrugged, exchanged looks and slowly began walking toward FloMo.

I realized that if a guy running away with a big letter counts as the most exciting event of the night, it was time for a change. After nearly three years, I’ve become disenchanted with the whole Stanford scene and, suddenly, I couldn’t be happier that I was going to spend spring quarter in Paris. Yes, springtime at Stanford is pleasant. But I’d be willing to bet that springtime in Paris is great.

There are few places in the world that have an aura quite like Paris. It’s the city of ex-pat intellectuals discussing philosophy over coffee and cigarettes; of hip cafes with endless wine, expensive cheese and to-die-for chocolate; of Coco Chanel, Christian Dior and all those other trend-setting fashion gods. The name is practically synonymous with art and elegance.

Sure, I’ve visited before. And I have to admit, the city didn’t exactly live up to my expectations: It was dirty, full of tourists and a tad kitschy. Sadly, it wasn’t quite the exciting, chic artistic center I had hoped for.

But still, I can’t help but get butterflies in my stomach every time I think about spending three whole months living like a real Parisian (well, kind of like a real Parisian). There’s something about the city—not the actual, physical city itself, but just the idea of the city, the very notion of Paris—that’s mesmerizing. And even if my life there isn’t filled with sultry cafe rendezvous, even if I don’t all of sudden find the artistic inspiration hidden within, at least everything will be new and unexpected.

By the time this paper goes to print, Vicky will have been in Paris for at least 48 hours. Email her at vickyd@stanford.edu for details.