Having studied at the Sorbonne, I spent my 21st birthday in Paris

Host: The evening sky above Paris was washed in amber light, the kind that makes the Seine shimmer like a living ribbon of fire. Notre Dame loomed across the river — solemn, eternal — its gargoyles watching over the drifting hum of humanity below. The air was thick with laughter, smoke, and jazz, with the faint clatter of cutlery and the aroma of butter and wine seeping from the cafés that lined the cobblestone streets.

At one such café — tables pressed close, candles flickering against the breeze — Jack sat across from Jeeny, both framed by the rhythm of life that only Paris seems to compose. The Eiffel Tower, visible between the rooftops, blinked faintly in the distance — a reminder that romance and intellect were never far apart here.

Jeeny: “Joseph Abboud once said, ‘Having studied at the Sorbonne, I spent my 21st birthday in Paris and celebrated with one of my professors in a café outside of Notre Dame.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Ah, Paris — the only city where even education sounds like a love affair.”

Host: The waiter passed, placing before them two cups of espresso and a shared plate of crème brûlée, its surface still crackling with heat. Around them, the low murmur of conversation — French syllables melting like sugar on the air.

Jeeny: “That’s because Paris understands that learning isn’t just in the mind — it’s in the senses. The Sorbonne, the Seine, the cafés — it’s all one long lesson in how to live beautifully.”

Jack: “Beautifully, yes. But indulgently, too. I wonder if the mind can stay sharp when the heart keeps getting distracted by wine and architecture.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Distraction isn’t the enemy of wisdom, Jack. It’s the source of it. You don’t learn life by memorizing — you learn it by tasting.”

Host: She lifted her cup, steam curling upward like incense. The street musicians nearby struck a gentle tune — a violin waltz that wove through the air like memory itself.

Jack: “So you think pleasure and intellect belong together?”

Jeeny: “They always have. The Greeks dined while they debated. The French paint their philosophies onto their pastries. Even Descartes probably had a croissant in hand when he said, ‘I think, therefore I am.’”

Jack: “Ha. I doubt he’d agree with your interpretation.”

Jeeny: “Then he never truly lived in Paris.”

Host: The lights from Notre Dame flickered across the river, catching in Jeeny’s eyes — soft, brown, luminous. Jack leaned back in his chair, watching her, half-amused, half-thoughtful.

Jack: “You know, Abboud’s quote isn’t really about Paris. It’s about time — that moment in youth when the world feels infinite, and even a professor’s company feels like destiny.”

Jeeny: “You’re saying nostalgia disguises itself as philosophy.”

Jack: “I’m saying memory is always colored by beauty. We remember the glow, not the ache.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because beauty is the truth we’re meant to keep. Pain fades. But the glow — the taste, the laughter, the music — that’s what lingers. That’s what defines us.”

Host: A busker’s saxophone began to play near the bridge — low, soulful notes rising into the night air, mingling with the scent of rain on stone. A small crowd gathered, clapping softly. The city pulsed with warmth.

Jack: “It’s funny, though — how Paris makes people poetic. You can’t help it. Even cynics sound romantic here.”

Jeeny: “Because Paris doesn’t teach you to love — it teaches you to notice. The shimmer on the river. The light on someone’s face. The sound of a spoon against porcelain. It’s all part of the same heartbeat.”

Host: She broke the crème brûlée’s surface, the spoon cracking through the caramelized crust with a delicate snap. Jack smiled at the sound — at once ordinary and divine.

Jack: “That’s your idea of philosophy, isn’t it? The sacred in the small things.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what art is, too? Abboud’s professor probably wasn’t teaching him about literature that night — he was teaching him about presence.”

Jack: “Presence?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The ability to sit in a moment so completely that it becomes eternal. That’s what Paris does. It convinces you that time can pause — that a birthday, a meal, a conversation can live forever.”

Host: The church bells of Notre Dame began to ring — slow, deep, reverent. Each note rolled through the air, over the river, through the café — as if the whole city bowed to its own heartbeat.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You know, I had a moment like that once. Not in Paris — in Rome. I sat in a piazza, listening to an old man play violin under the streetlight. I didn’t think about anything — not the past, not the future. Just… was. For a moment, everything made sense.”

Jeeny: “And that, Jack, is what Abboud meant. The Sorbonne gave him knowledge, but Paris gave him wisdom — the kind that comes when life stops being an equation and becomes a taste.”

Host: A gentle rain began, tapping against the awning above them, soft as applause. The street shimmered, reflecting the golden lamps, the blue of the river, the white of the cathedral — all dissolving into something surreal, almost holy.

Jack: “You think every city has a soul like this?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But Paris wears hers openly. She’s not afraid to remind you that beauty isn’t a luxury — it’s nourishment.”

Jack: “And indulgence isn’t sin — it’s study.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They laughed quietly, the kind of laughter that doesn’t disturb the air but becomes part of it. The rain grew heavier, and the waiter came out with a small umbrella, grinning as he handed it to them.

Jeeny: “You see? Even the rain in Paris is polite.”

Jack: (standing, taking the umbrella) “Polite — but persuasive. It insists you slow down.”

Jeeny: “That’s the Parisian way — everything slows you down. So you can actually feel your life.”

Host: They stepped out into the rain, their footsteps echoing on the cobblestone, the cathedral bells fading into distance. The city shimmered, alive and dreaming, and the air was full of the scent of wet earth and espresso — the perfume of existence itself.

As the camera pulled back, the light from the café glowed behind them, soft and golden, a tiny universe of warmth in the vastness of night.

And over it all lingered Joseph Abboud’s quiet truth —

that education may sharpen the mind,
but it is experience that awakens the soul,
and that sometimes, the greatest lesson
is found not in the lecture hall,
but in a café outside Notre Dame,
where the world tastes of rain,
and youth learns to breathe in beauty.