What a ride.

As I write, I sit; sat in my Paris apartment. The skies are clouding over, and rain is on the way. My bags are empty: It’s a habit of mine to completely unpack just to pack it all up again and hit the road.

Have to end one ride to start another.

Five and a half months have come and gone. It was fast, it was fun… At times it was rough. But the memories that linger are the good ones, ones that won’t get lost any time soon.

There is so much to say, but nothing I write now will say it the right way. 

The walls here are 50 shades of grey: Changing in the light, changing with the mood. Two well-loved leather chairs sit across from me. Their arms are welcoming, having hugged many visitors with bulging arms of comfort and stability. A stack of French magazines neatly occupies the glass tabletop shared between them – a large sturdy hardcover named Helmut Newton holds them tall. A black and white print of hundreds of parisiens and parisiennes sunbathing leans next to a painting of a woman in red dancing with a man in black on the wall. A faded vase of flowers hangs beside them, framed next to an upright lamp.

The sun has slipped away from the large window on the left even though dusk is hours away. It’s an early night for him, and a longer night for me.

Like this room, in this Paris apartment, the past half year has been a completely describable experience. And one day, I’ll get it all down.

But not tonight.


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