Kisses And Croissants Quotes

Paris. Rome. London. I have no desire to sit on a hot beach somewhere. I want to see all the romantic places in Europe and make love in every city and take pictures kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower. I want to eat croissants and hold hands on trains.

What's the big deal with France? How come everyone wants to go there? Let me tell you about France. Their music sucks. Their movies suck. Their berets suck. Their croissants are pretty good, but the place overall still sucks.My family went there once on the way to visit Dad's homeland family. EuroDisney. Need I say more?

The only way to make it in this world is to want it more than anyone else

We’re both aware that he knows everything about Parisian life, whereas I have he savvy of a chocolate croissant.

A piece of happiness has entered my heart, and I know the cause of it.

He's gleeful to know something I don't. Which is annoying considering we're both aware that he knows everything about Parisian life, whereas I have the savvy of a chocolate croissant.

Vomit began to spill out of me like pea soup, splattering the road with champagne and caviar, long island iced teas, of bacon appetizers and croissants, and a perfectly grilled filet mignonette. It had gone down easy, among the kiss ups of the lawyer world, but spewed out nastily and hard, in the company of a cheater.

I’m sure you’ve had croissants before. You can get them pretty much anywhere. They usually taste fine, a little bland, maybe. But when you come to Paris, the croissants are unlike anything else you’ve eaten before. They’re warm and soft, golden and buttery. Like baked clouds. Deliciously decadent clouds. They may look the same as the other croissants but they are far superior in every single way and why am I thinking about that right now? Because croissants are like kisses. You don’t fully “get”them until you’ve had them in Paris. And now I know this: French kisses taste a million times better in France.

Only I can shape who I’m going to become, by doing exactly what I had been doing until now: working hard, keeping my focus solely on what I really want, and then working harder.

I tell her every detail. How he came over every morning with croissants, how we played music together, how he made Gram and Big so happy just by being in the house, how we drank wine last night and kissed until I was sure I had walked right into the sky. I told her how I think I can hear his heart beating even when he's not there, how I feel like flowers - Gargantuan ones - are blooming in my chest.

Your character and soul, intelligence and creativity, love and experiences, goodness and talents, your bright and lovely self are entwined with your body, and she has delivered the whole of you to this very day. What a partner! She has been a home for your smartest ideas, your triumphant spirit, your best jokes. You haven’t gotten anywhere you’ve ever gone without her. She has served you well. Your body walked with you all the way through childhood—climbed the trees and rode the bikes and danced the ballet steps and walked you into the first day of high school. How else would you have learned to love the smell of brownies, toasted bagels, onions and garlic sizzling in olive oil? Your body perfectly delivered the sounds of Stevie Wonder, Whitney Houston, and Bon Jovi right into your memories. She gave you your first kiss, which you felt on your lips and in your stomach, a coordinated body venture. She drove you to college and hiked the Grand Canyon. She might have carried your backpack through Europe and fed you croissants. She watched Steel Magnolias and knew right when to let the tears fall. Maybe your body walked you down the aisle and kissed your person and made promises and threw flowers. Your body carried you into your first big interview and nailed it—calmed you down, smiled charmingly, delivered the right words. Sex? That is some of your body’s best work. Your body might have incubated, nourished, and delivered a whole new human life, maybe even two or three. She is how you cherish the smell of those babies, the feel of their cheeks, the sound of them calling your name. How else are you going to taste deep-dish pizza and French onion soup? You have your body to thank for every good thing you have ever experienced. She has been so good to you. And to others. Your body delivered you to people who needed you the exact moment you showed up. She kissed away little tears and patched up skinned knees. She holds hands that need holding and hugs necks that need hugging. Your body nurtures minds and souls with her presence. With her lovely eyes, she looks deliberately at people who so deeply need to be seen. She nourishes folks with food, stirring and dicing and roasting and baking. Your body has sat quietly with sad, sick, and suffering friends. She has also wrapped gifts and sent cards and sung celebration songs to cheer people on. Her face has been a comfort. Her hands will be remembered fondly—how they looked, how they loved. Her specific smell will still be remembered in seventy years. Her voice is the sound of home. You may hate her, but no one else does.

I Am A God [Intro: Capleton] Blazing, mi don't want them Mi need them Blazing Suh mi tek har outta bugah red and put her in a tall skirt And now she find out what life is really worth No to X rated Yo mi tek har outta bugah red and put her in a tall skirt And now she find out what life is really worth No to X rated [Intro] I am a god I am a god I am a god [Hook] I am a god Hurry up with my damn massage Hurry up with my damn ménage Get the Porsche out the damn garage I am a god Even though I'm a man of god My whole life in the hands of god So y'all better quit playing with god [Verse 1] Soon as they like you make 'em unlike you Cause kissing people ass is so unlike you The only rapper compared to Michael So here's a few hating-ass niggas who'll fight you And here's a few snake-ass niggas to bite you And I don't even wanna hear 'bout what niggas might do Old niggas mentally still in high school Since the tight jeans they never liked you Pink-ass polos with a fucking backpack But everybody know you brought real rap back Nobody had swag, man, we the Rat Pack Virgil Pyrex, Don C snapback Ivan, diamond, Chi-town shining Monop' in this bitch, get a change of climate Hop in this bitch and get the same thing I'm in Until the day I get struck by lightning I am a god So hurry up with my damn massage In a French-ass restaurant Hurry up with my damn croissants I am a god I am a god I am a god AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! [Verse 2] I just talked to Jesus He said, "What up Yeezus?" I said, "Shit I'm chilling Trying to stack these millions." I know he the most high But I am a close high Mi casa, su casa That's that cosa nostra I am a god I am a god I am a god AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! [Outro: Justin Vernon] Ain't no way I'm giving up. I'm a god

I hopped in the car and headed toward the ranch. I almost fell asleep at the wheel. Twice. Marlboro Man met me at the road that led to his parents’ house, and I followed him down five miles of graveled darkness. When we pulled into the paved drive, I saw the figure of his mother through the kitchen window. She was sipping coffee. My stomach gurgled. I should have eaten something. A croissant, back at my parents’ house. A bowl of Grape-Nuts, maybe. Heck, a Twinkie at QuikTrip would have been nice. My stomach was in knots. When I exited the car, Marlboro Man was there. Shielded by the dark of the morning, we were free to greet each other not only with a close, romantic hug but also a soft, sweet kiss. I was glad I’d remembered to brush my teeth. “You made it,” he said, smiling and rubbing my lower back. “Yep,” I replied, concealing a yawn. “And I got a five-mile run in before I came. I feel awesome.” “Uh-huh,” he said, taking my hand and heading toward the house. “I sure wish I were a morning person like you.” When we walked into the house, his parents were standing in the foyer. “Hey!” his dad said with a gravelly voice the likes of which I’d never heard before. Marlboro Man came by it honestly. “Hello,” his mom said warmly. They were there to welcome me. Their house smelled deliciously like leather. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Ree.” I reached out and shook their hands. “You sure look nice this morning,” his mom remarked. She looked comfortable, as if she’d rolled out of bed and thrown on the first thing she’d found. She looked natural, like she hadn’t set her alarm for 3:40 A.M. so she could be sure to get on all nine layers of mascara. She was wearing tennis shoes. She looked at ease. She looked beautiful. My palms felt clammy. “She always looks nice,” Marlboro Man said to his mom, touching my back lightly. I wished I hadn’t curled my hair. That was a little over-the-top. That, and the charcoal eyeliner. And the raspberry shimmer lip gloss.

I never felt so...argh and grrr and hmmm before." Pauline laughed. "That's a godd one." I glared at her, throwing a croissant at her as a punishment. Which she caught. Hmpf. "I can't describe it. I'm not a poet." "Fireworks?" Remembering yesterday, the kisses and the heat, I answered without hesitation, "Bombs.

... she ran to the little bed and seized hold of her beloved with a tender moan (my chocolate croissant, my little warm brioche), and began to eat her up with kisses. This consuming love never stopped. When Marie drank her coffee, she would nibble her daughter's cheek between two sips, the way others take a puff on their cigarette.

Paris. Rome. London. I have no desire to go sit on a hot beach somewhere. I want to see all the romantic places in Europe and make love in every city and take pictures kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower. I want to eat croissants and hold hands on trains.

Until we kiss again. The French way, obviously

I smile at my reflection in the mirror. I want to look nice, but not like I tried to look nice.

Because croissants are like kisses. You don’t fully “get” them until you’ve had them in Paris. And now I know this: French kisses taste a million times better in France.

After I'd polished off one pastry and was halfway through a second, he asked, "Happy pastry?" The laugh bubbled up around my mouthful of blackberry jam and vanilla custard. I swallowed and said, "Understatement. Ecstatic pastry. Delighted pastry. I-love-you pastry." He cracked up. "Wow, strong words. All I had to do was bring you the finest croissants in the land." I put my plate on the nightstand and crawled to him. "Please don't think you have to buy me fancy pastry all the time so I'll stay in love with you." "What do I have to do?" He set his plate aside. "Spoil Floyd rotten? Make you shrimp for dinner every day?" "Be yourself," I said. His wolfish grin was gorgeous, and when I kissed him, his joy was buttery sweet on my tongue.

I’m sure you’ve had croissants before. You can get them pretty much anywhere. They usually taste fine, a little bland, maybe. But when you come to Paris, the croissants are unlike anything else you’ve eaten before. They’re warm and soft, golden and buttery. Like baked clouds. Deliciously decadent clouds. They may look the same as the other croissants but they are far superior in every single way and why am I thinking about that right now? Because croissants are like kisses. You don’t fully “get” them until you’ve had them in Paris. And now I know this: French kisses taste a million times better in France.

The sun is just setting on all the slate rooftops. I scan the endless horizon, and Louis must guess what I'm looking for, because he pulls on my hand and silently points toward the right, in the direction of the Eiffel Tower, which is just visible in the distance. "Is this for real?" I ask Louis stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist as we keep admiring the view. "I hope so," he whispers in my ear.

The thing is, ballet is a collaborative experience. Each dancer sets the scene for the next one. Even when you’re doing a solo, it’s not just about you: you are simply borrowing everyone’s attention for a few minutes, before passing it on. Ballet is about harmony. And harmony can only be achieved in the spirit of teamwork.

rode the gondolas in Venice, eaten cannoli for breakfast, and gotten lost in the maze of canals as we tried to find Saint Mark’s Basilica. In Paris, we strolled hand in hand down the Champs-Élysées, eating croissants and watching the sun set over the Eiffel Tower. I saw the Mona Lisa, walked beneath the Arc de Triomphe, and kissed Lucian at the top of the Ferris wheel.

One more time!

Mia?” he says at last. “I didn’t really come to the Musée d’Orsay to hang out with Max this morning. I saw your name on the list at school. I wanted to see you again….

then they ruin it all for a bit of fun.” “What girls?” I demand, realizing too late that I’ve crossed a line. Am I seriously discussing my love life with the artistic director of the Institute of the Paris Opera? I must have lost my mind, and, judging by the bitter look on Monsieur Dabrowski’s face, it’s too late to get it back. More tears follow. I have to wipe my face now, because I can’t see through them anymore. He grimaces, then looks away, giving me the tiniest bit of privacy. “I didn’t mean to make you cry… but, Mademoiselle J—Mia,” he continues, his voice softer, “you need to decide what is more important to you. And you need to do that now. I am not taking you off the role for that one mistake, but I will not tell you this twice: you have an opportunity to

It’s not what you think,” I say. “What’s happening between Louis and me—” “Happened with other girls before,” the maître de ballet cuts in sharply. “Excuse me?” My voice is so weak, it’s almost a whisper. The tears I’ve been holding back run down my face, and I don’t bother wiping them off. This cannot be happening. He lets out a deep, irritated sigh. “I told Louis to stop hanging around school. He just… well, he doesn’t have his own dreams. He doesn’t get it. But these girls, they have a purpose, a future. And

Ballet is not first right now,” I say, leaning closer to him. “Right now is about us.” Louis’s eyes open wide as he pulls me to him. This moment feels different. Charged. Expectant. I wrap my arms around his neck. He brings his face and rests his forehead against mine. I brush my nose against his and get another whiff of him, sunshine

and cedar. I inhale deeply, trying to bottle it up in my memory. Everything about this moment feels right: the murmurs from the street around us, the warm air, the sweet taste of his breath. My heart can no longer handle the anticipation: I part my lips and close the tiny bit of space between us to go find his.

Because croissants are like kisses. You don’t fully “get” them until

you’ve had them in Paris. And now I know this: French kisses taste a million times better in France.

Oops,” she says, stabbing the top of my thigh lightly with a needle. “This tulle is so thick!” Is it weird if I tell her that she can stab me all she wants? Ballerinas are used to pain. We live with it every day, from our split toenails to our strained muscles. You can’t be a dancer if you’re not willing to make friends with pain. Audrey spins around to accommodate her seamstress, who starts pinning the top in the back. Facing me now, she looks me up and down, her face impassive.

I place the pictures at the bottom of the drawer in my nightstand and turn off the light. From now on, and until the moment I’m on a plane heading back home, I will think of nothing else but ballet.

Excuse me,” I say. “Do you know this guy?” They both look a little scared as they glance over to Louis. “Hmm,” the blond one says, one eyebrow raised. Louis comes closer and positions himself in between us. “Louis Dabrowski? He dates every girl in this school, apparently.” “Mia!” Louis says. “My dad is going to kill me.” Then he turns to the girls. “Désolé,” he mumbles, his chest heaving. “Not as much as he destroyed me!” I say. The girls open their eyes wide and freeze. Louis says something else to them in French, but I’m too upset to even try to understand. Before they turn the corner of the street,

they look back at me, giggling to themselves. I turn to Louis. “You don’t know what it’s like to have a dream. Something to live or die by. Do you think it’s funny to distract girls? To get in their way?” Louis’s mouth drops open. “I never stopped you from doing anything you wanted to do.” “But you lied to me.” He shakes his head. “Maybe I didn’t tell you everything about my past, but—” “Stop!” “No! I’m not stopping. I want you to succeed, Mia. I want you to get picked by the ABT director, even if it means I’ll never see you again.” He seems on edge himself, vulnerable even, but I don’t trust anything coming from him anymore. His words just glide over me, my anger stripping them of any meaning.

You’re right about something, Louis. You don’t understand how hard I’ve worked to get here, because you don’t care about anything. I’m done throwing my future away for someone who thinks this is just a game.” Louis swallows. For a moment, I’m certain that he’s about to yell at me just like I did at him. Instead, he just looks on bitterly, shakes his head, and walks away. A moment later he straddles his Vespa, snaps his helmet shut, and drives off without looking back. That night, to keep my mind busy, I decide to break in yet another new pair of pointe shoes. It feels good to bend the wooden shank relentlessly. I bang the toe box against the floor repeatedly, probably harder than I need to. After I burn the ends of the ribbon and sew on the elastic just the way I like, I put them in my dance

You’re right about something, Louis. You don’t understand how hard I’ve worked to get here, because you don’t care about anything. I’m done throwing my future away for someone who thinks this is just a game.” Louis swallows. For a moment, I’m certain that he’s about to yell at me just like I did at him. Instead, he just looks on bitterly, shakes his head, and walks away. A moment later he straddles his Vespa, snaps his helmet shut, and drives off without looking back. That night, to keep my mind busy, I decide to break in yet another new pair of pointe shoes. It feels good to bend the wooden shank relentlessly. I bang the toe box against the floor repeatedly, probably harder than I need to. After I burn the ends of the ribbon and sew on the elastic just the way I like, I put them in my dance bag, satisfied. Now I’m ready for my next rehearsals. There, at the bottom of my bag, are the pictures of Élise Mercier, my ancestor. I sit on my bed, and, as I stare at them, it dawns on me that Louis isn’t the only mistake I’ve made since I arrived in Paris. Something else knocked me off my path: I let this family legend get to me. I somehow believed that my future was out of my hands, that it had been decided for me centuries ago. But Mom was right: it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Whether Élise Mercier was painted by Degas, or whether she was even an important ballet dancer in her time, my past does not define me. Only I can shape who I’m going to become, by doing exactly what I had been doing until now: working hard, keeping my focus solely on what I really want, and then working harder. I place the pictures at the bottom of the drawer in my nightstand and turn off the light. From now on, and until the moment I’m on a plane heading back home, I will think of nothing else but ballet.

Except that when I find him waiting outside on the steps, in the exact spot where we first met, I realize once more how foolish I am.

How many times have you sat on these steps, checking out ballerinas, and just picked one you liked?” “What are you talking about?” One more time, Louis tries to grab my hand, but I cross my arms. “Let’s go get something to eat. We’ll talk, okay?” “Did you want to keep us a secret because you have another girlfriend here?” “What? No, that’s ridiculous.” I shake my head with rage. “So you’ve never dated another girl from this school?” A small part of me still hopes that this has all been a terrible misunderstanding, and that Monsieur Dabrowski was just annoyed with me about the performance. He could have made up that story to bring me back to reason.

But Louis doesn’t deny it. Instead, he just sighs. “Who told you that?” I want to crumble to the ground and scream. Someone please wake me up from this nightmare. “That’s all you care about?” “I care about you, Mia. You have to know that. It’s different than the others….” The others. Plural. “I never want to see you again.” I bark this so loudly that a couple of passersby turn to look at us, but I don’t care. Two older students—probably from the yearlong program—come out the front door, and I catch Louis glance at the petite blond one. “Her?” I ask way too loudly. “Stop it,” Louis says without raising his voice. But I’m shaking with disgust. I take a few steps toward the girls who are walking down the stairs.

Love is like ballet in that way: to be worth it, it has to be painful at times. Exquisitely so.

I thought I wanted this more than anything else; then my life took a different path, and it was perfect. This isn’t about missing chances. It’s about enjoying the journey. You should pursue your dream for as long as you want to, but you should also allow yourself to change dreams along the way.