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I arrived in Paris, steeped in the midst of the January blues and almost feverish with anticipation. I was visiting an old friend while also in desperate need for escape; for me, neither could come soon enough. I spilled into Justine’s arms, and subsequently poured myself into a city of adventure. Justine, in her characteristically gentle manner unfurled excitement after excitement, and we weaved our way through the cobbled streets like both of us had lived there our whole lives. Pausing only at select pit stops along the way, we covered a substantial chunk of the thriving metropolis in the three days I spent with her. Thanks to EU student rates, and the sparsity of January holiday makers in the French capitol, we waltzed our way through the Louvre, clambered excitedly up Montmartre, and breathed in the bustling city from the top of The Arc du Triomphe. However, a special kind of experience was to be gleaned from a visit to Justine’s local bakery, an enterprise so authentic it was adorned with no more than a simple sign spelling 'Boulangerie' in twisted coffee-coloured lettering. Inside the sliding door, highly polished artisanal delights sat behind panes of glass. Paris-Brests, Mille Feuilles, and macarons perched themselves immaculately on decorative trays, while surrounded by an assortment of glazed pastries, glistening like cabochons in a display cabinet. However, we were in that shop for one thing only; a traditional French pastry called 'galette des rois.' As Justine recounted her childhood associations with this glossy delight to me, I realised just how personal this show-and-eat was. I was handed a warm flaking sphere of pastry, and it dawned on me that Justine was inviting me to taste more than tradition, but to taste her past. Standing outside that bakery in the bitter January cold, I sank my teeth into a world of nostalgia that was not my own. Each layer of puff pastry gave way to an even warmer and more buttery interior, until my mouth was full of a wondrous combination of butter, frangipane, and happiness. We stood smiling at each other, stupefied by the delicious sensation of sharing good memories with a close friend. In the magical atmosphere created, in a city so entirely her own, there was no better way to escape the post-Christmas blues than with Justine in Paris. As I returned home, galette in my hand, and Justine in my heart, I felt the fog lift in a way that only good company, in good places can make happen.