"You have to stop moving at some point or you're going to crash," said my Turkish friend's father the other night with a gentle smile. I've been moving around for a while now. It's a miracle if I stay anywhere longer than a year.
But I keep coming back to Paris. Last night after a long day in Orientation I took myself on a walk through the past.
I walked past the bar where my friend and I talked about her lover over aperos, past the stores where I would window shop and dream of dressing like a French woman, through the busy tourist strewn streets of the Latin Quarter where I used to smoke cigarettes and drink straight vodka while falling in love with musicians I never had the balls to talk to, and up to the Marais, past a street where I lived and a cafe where I used to work late into the night for little money.
I took a taxi home after midnight and rolled down the window. The wind blew in my hair. I drove past more of the past. More memories. There are so many but I hold onto them all.
This city has been through a lot with me. It has always been a place of growth. A place where I believed in my dreams. And romance. And myself. I went through some of the worst months of my life here but I always came out better for it.
It feels even better to be here than I thought it would. I feel more feminine, at ease and confident here than anywhere else.
I have been spending a lot of my time inside an office, but I am content. When I go out for a coffee I'm called "Princesse" and am grateful for even the poorly made cappucinos that fuel my morning. I also know that I'll be all over the city with a group of teenagers before I know it. I'll be busy as hell but it thrills me.
I have spent the past five months bleeding my heart out and beating myself to a pulp. Now that I'm here I know that it's time for me to stop mourning. To stop acting like I don't know how to take care of myself. 'm done. I'm pulling myself together. For the next five weeks I have no other choice but to be the best version of myself.
I know that no matter what I'll come out of this better for it.
Paris, you dirty devil, you've done it again.