On my last day in Paris, I sat on a bench in a quiet garden, bags packed and body tired, ready to head home. As I rested, I began to notice something unusual—everyone around me was smiling. In a city known more for its charm than its warmth, this felt different. People from all over the world were filtering into the garden, and as they approached the wall in front of me, their faces softened. Curious, I finally looked up and saw a mural of deep blue tiles, each inscribed with white script. I stepped closer, trying to read the words. They weren’t in French—or at least, not just French.
As I moved along the wall, the pattern revealed itself. “I love you.” “J’aime.” “Te amo.” “Ik hou van jou.” The wall was covered with that one simple phrase, repeated in hundreds of languages. One by one, visitors would search for their version of those three little words, and when they found it, they’d smile—sometimes small, sometimes wide. It was a beautiful, quiet thing to witness: people finding something familiar in an unfamiliar place. Tucked into the base of Montmartre, in a city buzzing with the noise of tourists and locals alike, I found a garden where the whole world paused to feel loved. Just three words, written again and again on a big blue wall.
