Paris was, to me, a city where it was impossible to stay jaded.
I loved the way you order espresso with cafe un cafe noisette (noisette meaning hazelnut, a nod to the color of the lightened milk). I loved the scooters and the bike paths and the unreasonably pleasant public transit. I loved the way sunlight soaked the Ile-de-France in the early afternoon.
I took lots of pictures (and of course, my mother is upset at me for not having sent her any yet). I spent a lot of time walking and I spent a lot of time sitting, two activities which I need to do more of now that I’m back stateside.
I finished reading The Story of the Lost Child (which I am very sad to be done with) and got through most of The Master and Margarita (which I am mostly amused/bemused by.)
I did very little work, which was the goal, but even then I did less than I expected; a courtesy sweep of emails and messages in the morning and that’s pretty much it.
It feels good to be back in reality, though, the way it always feels good to return to my apartment — to begin the ritual of unpacking, to return to my old habits and objects and find all of them a little richer from the time spent away.
My to-do list is very long right now, and I’ll be spending the rest of this Sunday in my inbox. But I am so much happier than I was this time last week — my legs more tired and my head less fogged.