Written: at a table outside Café le Bistro in the 10eme, with a glass of rosé.
Countries visited: 2
Churches visited: 5
Pastries eaten: ~17
A storm wanders over on Friday the 13th, announcing itself with very little rain but a theatrically long grumble that makes everyone look up, surprised.
Logically it makes no sense, but I’d never thought of it storming in Paris. Rain, yes: uniformly grey skies and soft light and puddles that mock my choice of footwear. Snow, certainly, and sunshine, both golden hot and white cold, glinting off iron balconies and slanting down boulevards.
But not storms. In my head storms belong to Brisbane.
I came back from a weekend in Belgium with a red nose. After the shock of seven degrees when I arrived, I was equally unprepared for 27 in Ypres, and I became perhaps the first ever Australian to visit Europe in May and suffer a sunburn. (I await, resignedly, annulation of my citizenship.)
My dear friend Katie came back to Paris with me and stayed until Wednesday. On Thursday the worries clawed at my throat: where will I stay after this month? What if I spend all my money? What am I doing with my life?
On Friday morning I write myself a list, create an illusion of structure for my life with a steady hand. I need routine, plans, vegetables. I pour a long coffee and add two sugar cubes and by the time I reach the bottom of the cup my joie de vivre has returned.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember that it’s only two weeks since I uprooted my life. I have to keep reminding myself that it storms sometimes in Paris, too.