Paris

And so my absence has become apparent after months of unwritten material.
To quickly fast forward, the leave of absence or the six months sabbatical can be blamed on Paris.

I have been back from the city of lights for a two months and a half now and I constantly feel the absence of the city somewhere luring behind me dressed as an immaculate frenchmen, holding a picnic basqcket with baguette, wine and an assortment of cheese; asking me “On y va a la Siene?”.

Paris went as a blur. The first two months were spent complaining about the lack of politeness the french people possessed (coming from Canada, this hit me like a truck). The three months after came with the acceptance I had to make the most of my exchange experience; a lot of walking, a lot of drinking and a lot of 2Bis and lot of eating. The last 2 months I spent wallowing; every day was a Sunday; the constant realisation I would have to leave soon appeared mysteriously everyday.

And that was Paris. Paris doesn’t open your arms when you arrive, the contrary; it kicks you and bullies you; reminding you how much your french still sucks and  how tourist you still look. It creeps ups you and  starts to wrap his arms around you reminding you how every corner is beautiful, how arrogance is acceptable, how ignorant every American now seems and how there will never be another one as good.

I now find myself in Mexico City, where the word “monstrosity” takes a more literal meaning.

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