In the last 10 months I have visited 7 countries via 11 planes, 1 overnight cruise ship, a tour bus shared with 53 others, countless trains, trams, bikes, mini vans and hundreds of miles of walking. I’ve stayed in 12 hostels, 9 hotels, 1 motel, with 1 French host family, 4 kind friends and had 4 proper homes.
It always had to come to an end. I’m so glad that I got to live here for two months and fulfill that part of my dream. However as I fly away from Paris, sitting in the window seat for the first time ever, I can’t stop the tears from falling down the face as I know this is where I want to be, but will forever have my heart torn between location, sensibility, reality and loved ones. I don’t know if I’ll truly be able to live here again, not in the same context anyway.
I started this post over a month ago, whilst sitting in a corner coffee shop in a road parallel to the Parc du Champ de Mars, watching the dark, rainy world of Paris go past. It’s only 5pm and already the street lights are reflecting off the slippery surfaces, which are also scattered with leaves this late November.
London was easy. London quickly because a comfortable home away from home. London is amazing and fast and a thrill but anyone can move to London. I wanted a challenge, to take a chance, to be wild. I wanted a culture change, a journey, that moment of panic mixed with exhilaration that takes over for a few seconds when you first wake up in the morning, before your rational thinking takes over. I wanted life changing. I wanted adventure, experience and tingling excitement. Mostly I wanted Paris.