i came to paris three years ago. with my mother and aunt, and in the immediate aftermath of a breakup. a bad one. as they all are.
and i don't remember much about that trip beyond the moment i've written about before (here and here), where my mother and my aunt and i stood atop the tour de montparnasse watching the eiffel tower sparkle and i was so adamant that everyone stop and pay attention and enjoy the moment because we would never again be as we were then.
my mother and i are in paris. we are not as we were then.
what i'm struck by is this: in the winter of 2007, i bought a diane von furstenburg leopard print suitcase for $49.99 from t.j. maxx. that luggage was intended for all the weekends i would be spending with the boy who later broke up with me. the boy who lived in north carolina.
i bought that luggage expecting weekends in north carolina. weeks in paris (never mind layovers in warsaw, nights in berlin and trains to prague) were beyond my wildest dreams.
you should read THIS, to which i say amen.