changing with the seasons
The airport was flooded with people. I was elbowed every two minutes by unapologetic travelers, pushing through the crowds with their luggage.
I was yelled at by a cleaning lady for using the sink in my toilet stall, because there was a line outside, and I could have used the sink in the main washroom. I blinked tired eyes and shrugged.
I was pulled over by young security men, as innocent looking as I am, while everyone else from my plane was ushered through. They grinned and asked me questions that had nothing to do with airport security.
On the bus to the train station I was sandwiched so tightly between several men that I considered buying a pregnancy test afterwards.
All of this, after 15 hours of flying, was a little hard on my nerves.
It wasn’t until Sunday that I made amends with Paris.
I walked the Seine, alive with people, and tore off layers as I walked in the sun. I visited friends in Montmartre, where a sudden rainstorm made the tourists run for cover like herds of sheep. I met friends for dinner in the Marais, in a restaurant where everything was bright pink.
At the end of the night I walked through the Latin Quarter, where a Greek restaurant owner pulled me into his restaurant and made me dance with him in front of all of his customers.
Now that winter’s heavy clouds have lifted, the city is sexy again. Suddenly I can appreciate it for what it is. I find myself constantly locked in stares with young men on motorbikes, and hold myself back from climbing aboard.
Life is blooming all around me, faster than the cherry blossoms, and the change in the air is slowly changing everything.
“It's spring fever.... You don't quite know what it is you DO want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!”