The last time I saw Paris I was 18 years old. Life was a mystery I looked forward to with stars in my eyes – no wonder I couldn’t see shit. This time, Paris was just as beautiful and still represented the kind of ideal that I was never destined to have: the likelihood of seeing beauty just while walking the streets, whether it was people or architecture; the chance to see a Venetian-inspired art installation at Tokio Palais; having drinks by the Seine, on a boat; watching a rock concert with bands I had only read about. Yes, some metros spelled like pee, homeless huddled in Gap doorways in the still of the night, and you felt like a deer in headlights because of the colour of your skin, although not as often as people warned, but it is the real world. My country is like a figment of Kafka’s imagination. How grateful I am to fate’s tender mercies that I can experience something else every so often.
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| Just a street sign |
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| Graffiti or as I like to call it Art |
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| Just a street, with the Sacre-Coeur |
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| Just an apartment block |
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| Just a cafe |
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