Dear blog,

I am sorry I haven't written to you for so long. I haven't meant to be so neglectful. I did have that other "friend" for a while but then I abandoned her too five weeks ago.

It's not you, dear blog, it's me.

You see, I miss Paris. I miss it so much that it hurts, like I've lost a friend or a lover. I miss Paris so much that since I left I have been filling my time thinking about Paris, reading about Paris, falling in love with short films about Paris and crying about Paris. This is not how I want to feel at all.

Paris is taking over my life.

Don't get me wrong, I haven't buried myself under my doona clutching a box of tissues sobbing about my broken heart. I am not unwell or depressed. Quite the opposite - I have been filling my every waking moment with something, anything to do. The time has filled up with chores, with the drudgery of work, with horse-riding adventures, with girly wine-filled afternoons, with shopping for shoes, with reading (yes, about Paris) and with my old friend, the television.

But, somehow Paris keeps creeping in.



I open my wardrobe door and peer in every morning and before I can grab some clothes for work I am imagining what I would choose to wear if I was in Paris.

I wipe the enormous kitchen bench again and again and again and remember that if I was in Paris, this job would be so much smaller.

I sit on the bus and stare wistfully out at the rain for the first time in six weeks and remember that the last time it rained for me, I was IN Paris.

I pick up a magazine at the hairdresser and flip past full-page perfume ads and fashion spreads shot on the streets of Paris, swoon over shoes I cannot afford and lust after buttery leather bags.

I select shuffle on my iPod for the short ride to work and am treated to Camille, Serge Gainsbourg, Vanessa Paradis and Carla Bruni in between the Ben Lee and Wolfmother and Sarah Blasko and Powderfinger tracks.



The reality is I've known Paris for only six (cumulative) weeks out of the last six years of my life. I keep trying to put this in more practical, tangible terms for my brain in an attempt to rationalise the loss I feel. Six weeks into a job you usually still don't know how you feel about the work or the workmates; six weeks into a relationship you can usually tell if it will go somewhere (although, if you're lucky then love will already have arrived); six weeks in a new home is not even enough time to figure out where the furniture should go or to get pictures on the walls and six weeks for new shoes is just enough time for them to get comfy (or the heels to wear through if you're a mean shoe owner).

I do love Paris. Unquestionably. I feel at home there, I feel alive there, I feel happy there. I have all but given up on using maps to navigate because I know instinctively where to go and how to get there, I now know where to expect those unexpected glimpses of Le Tour Eiffel or Notre Dame, I have a regular bookstore (no, not WH Smith), I know the best free toilets in the city (nope, not telling) and I know where I'd hang out on a Saturday if I was an emo kid in Paris (FYI - head to Quick Burger on Rue de la Roquette, 11th arrondissement). I've even bought something at Colette (yes, it was only a book - but still, this even impressed someone I know who lives in Paris). I like to think that each time I return I leave a little more "Parisian" chic; chubby little me with my patent beige trench coat, black shift dress, Sephora-brand mascara and Longchamp shopping tote.



I miss Paris yet I can't escape it.

The reality is Paris has taken on almost a mythical role in our culture. You can't avoid Paris, even if for you it is just some city on the other side of the world that is home to the Eiffel Tower and lots of smelly cheeses. Our lives are filled with references to Paris whether we choose to notice them or not. Paris is the benchmark for elegance and understated glamour, a city of chic dressing and luxurious practicalities. We wear clothes inspired by Parisian ready-to-wear collections, we groom ourselves with high-end and low-end French cosmetics (because we are worth it) and waft about in clouds of expensive designer brand parfum. We write shopping lists in our Moleskines and drop them into our LV and Chloe bags (real or imagined) already filled with Chanel compacts and glossy magazines referencing hip French brands like A.P.C. and Paul & Joe. We eat brie and drink sparkling wine, watch French movies and sip short black coffees in streetside cafes.




Most of the time I am happy to catch these glimpses of Paris. But there are days, just like today, when all they do is remind me of how much Brisbane is not Paris, of how my home is too modern and characterless to be Parisian, of how women in Paris would never wear thongs/flip-flops to work because they couldn't manage heels, of how I would like nothing more than a ripe and crusty ham and cheese baguette from PAUL for lunch but must settle for a Subway sandwich instead and of how the busker playing La Vie En Rose on accordion outside my office building makes me want to scream and hide instead of smile and skip along the Seine.

I promise to try to get over Paris and write to you more often.



Love,

Sara