My memories and I are at war right now. They are not to be trusted. Sudden flashes at the most inappropriate times when the present seems inadequate and the future terrifying. I know that they are wilfully rose coloured, that life in Paris was far from perfect, that I was alone, shit scared and unsatisfied many a time but I have to forcibly remind myself of these realities. My romantic self sees Paris as perfect. I remember only the times surrounded by friends or lovers, the afternoon light illuminating the Seine, aperos by the canal and endless nights of frivolity. The beauty and the elegance, the scale and the culture, haunt me. I have a Paris shaped hole in my heart.
So, this morning, instead of forbidding myself I decided to indulge. I succumbed and let mes souvenirs (however accurate) overcome me. I put on my favorite frog anthems, scrolled through zillions of photographs and allowed myself the freedom to remember. I grieved the passing of my Parisian self and mourned the end of an era. I listed all the things I missed and ran out of fingers. I was suitably self indulgent.
Wallowing became gratitude, sadness - joy. I had Paris and it had me. If I want to remember it as fucking fabulous, I will. It will always be a part of me - the good, the bad, the just plain ugly. My affair with The City of Light is far from over and thankfully it is just a short 85 hour plane ride away.