Was I really in Paris?

 

Okay, was I really there? I haven't even been home for a month and it feels like a dream, a hazy watercolour. Was I ever even there? Yet, I have the proof - photos and journals. And the stories, many many many stories.

Life for the past two years has been, well, less than stellar. Don't take this as bitching and moaning, take this as a fact. So, after a far less than perfect Christmas, I made the split second decision to go, to take a break, to go alone, to my favourite city in the world. I kept saying to friends and family, I just want to take a break from life, just a break, just to sleep for 3 months and not deal with anything. I made a better decision, a month in a rented apartment in Paris. A month of bread and cheese. A month of quiet. A month of being someone completely different than I am. It was lovely, so very very lovely.