Never in my life have I imagined I’d be where I am right now, in an alley way in Paris with a bottle of red wine, a pack of cigarettes and just my thoughts. This is, undeniably, the writer’s dream.
A snowflake just landed on my hand holding this phone and melted.
Snow doesn’t accumulate here, at least not frequently. And certainly not as often as it does in Connecticut where I grew up nor Boston where I live now. And never in California, where I fell back in love with this art I am exploring again now.
I arrived in Paris today from London to meet my cousin Gaelyn for a ten day trip through Europe following a weeklong excursion in England for an MBA class. I am most excited for this leg of my nearly three-week trip but was delighted by the fun we had north of the Channel.
The weeklong journey into London’s finance sector proved incredible in its depth outside of that arena. I grew closer to friends that went with me and met more along the way. The university doesn’t market the course as such but that is by far the most impactful portion of the trip.
Right now, I am anxious and excited for the next half of my journey and praying to find more time to log what I see and what I feel, trying to tap into the great writers that sat on steps like the one I sit on this evening—drunk but wide-eyed, exhausted but encouraged, lost but finding.