Me and Paris

The strange thing about me and Paris is that everytime I was there it was for something else. 

The first time we were on our way to Manchester, and I just wanted to arrive in my beloved England as soon as possible. Therefore we did go around, I made nice pictures of my ex husband and my little daughter (usually it was me taking photos!) but I wasn't actually there, really enjoying it. I simply couldn't wait to be back in England! 

The second time I was to meet someone there. We had a tiny flat given her from a friend who wasn't there for that time. On the sixth floor of an old and elegant nineteenth century building, probably in the Latin Quarter. The astonishing thing was that there was no bath, but a shared minuscule bathroom on the small landing of that last floor. Very surprising, I must say. Besides that I remember me driving in Paris and going around with this friend, while also thinking "people are not so nasty as they describe them!"

The third time... Well I know there was a third time, but at the moment I can't remember anything about that occasion. I've lost it. 

I often thought of this strange thing about me in Paris, because evertime, the aim of my being there, wasn't visiting at all! Therefore my attention was focused on my motive and not on the city. I didn't even got a feeling, a part from realising that it wasn't unpleasant, although, at the same time, it wasn't what you would call pleasant. It was totally neutral. 

It was as if I knew I would come back just for Paris, but eventually it never happened. My life became more and more frantic, heavy, discouraging...