After a 20 hour flight and a four hour stop over, Paris seems so far away now and I miss it.
Last year was horrendous. Filled with tremendous pain and betrayal, I took my broken heart and what I called; my heart on my sleeve, to Paris.
Hoping she could help me mend it.
In some respects she did, for a while.
However, once again, the gloom filled my heart and mind. That is when I booked my next trip to Paris, eight months in advance.
I knew this trip would be different from last year.
A somewhat sad, but much lighter, confident, happier me, arrived in Paris this time.
Staying in a different apartment, in my favourite area, Le Marais, seemed right. Arriving with luggage, this year, as opposed to none last year and my head in a different place, was a good beginning.
Took a day trip to London to buy shoes.
Discovered a Parisian cellar and met some Parisian mice.
Visited, every one, of the 20 arrondissements.
Explored passageways, visited churches, cathedrals and a museum full of stuffed animals.
Experienced wonderful and confronting museums.
Learned how to french a bone and make a jus at, no other, than Le Cordon Bleu.
Attended my sixth dinner, at Jim Haynes.
On a cold late night, snuggled with a dog, in a bistro.
Admired, in awe, the beautiful monuments and buildings, that now seem so familiar.
Walked for miles, visited markets, ate tete de veau for the first time, in a wonderfully, typical French restaurant and discovered more about myself.
Now, after complaining about my local homeless man, ranting and raving under my window and singing at the top of his voice on my street; I miss him.
Just when I think I know Paris, she offers me, even more wonderful surprises.
a bientot …