Before I moved to Paris, I used to visit as often as time and budget would allow. When it came time to leave, I always found myself sobbing in my seat as the plane taxied for take-off on the runway at Charles de Gaulle.
I know that's not exactly a sound reason for moving to Paris. On the other hand, life is short; so I guess it wasn't such a bad reason, either. I would have stayed forever. But life is life.
Now. Ta-dah! After three months of serious Paris jonesing, I am finally going back, for une petite semaine. Six days in Paris. T minus ten days and counting.
There's so much to do and so little time. Research, interviews, plus tedious banking and administrative details to settle. I can't possibly see all the friends I want to see, nor make the rounds of all the favorite haunts. If I stop by my old neighborhood (which I must) that will take at least half a day of catching up.
Oh joy, oh rapture! I can't wait.
I tried to be so very blasé and sophisticated about this return trip. But I will admit it: once my flight was booked I did jump up and down in the front hallway, cooing with glee, for three minutes. No one was looking.
Okay, maybe four minutes.
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