c'est moi qui chante

The boys in 'Les Choristes' give voice to the angels of a Renaissance painting. I sat in a nearly empty theatre, by myself, squirming in my seat with sheer delight. It was my first time seeing a movie on my own...something I've been meaning to do for a long time.

I took a long European day to myself. Went to the market to buy fresh ingredients, stopped for coffee, walked the streets, and saw a French film for dessert.

I am soon going to intoxicate myself with this rich European flavor.

And a summer in France won't do.

After looking at apartments in Toronto joylessly, and neglecting the newspaper stand that looms on the first floor of my residence, I called home. I hesitantly told my mother that I had to go to Paris. I'd been spying ads for jobs as an Au Pair and available apartments on the internet, and my heart started to scream. I cannot forget Paris. A dream is a dream, and I've been brought up to know they should be lived.

Settling down has never looked good on me.

And so I'm searching. I'm emailing with families and keeping my hopes up for a job as an Au Pair. This consists of being a live in nanny, and dealing with, gasp, les enfants. I think I can handle it. In fact, even though they may make me pull my hair out, I know I can. A big stubborn head can take you far.

I walked home from the movie with the choir singing in my head. I love Toronto, but a year off will help me plant my feet more solidly in it's soil. I move too restlessly right now.

The snow fell slowly over my hooded head and I basked in my solitude. My feet walk well alone, and I know they can take me as far as I want them to. For now, Paris will do.