paris
I’ve never had the urge to live in Paris.
My best and dearest friend who most likely held my hand in all our past
lives and definitely shares a part of my soul, always wanted to live in Paris.
I can remember sitting on the library floor at school when we were supposed to
be studying (but we’d finished, Miss, so we’re taking initiative and day
dreaming our lives away), she would tell me about the apartment in Paris she
would live in, how she would speak French to all the shop keepers and
eventually be wooed by some gorgeous French man who would brew her hot
chocolate and dance with her near the river. And then I’d come over for the
wedding and it’d all be wonderful. Her eyes would light up and her hand
gestures would get more and more elaborate as she painted the picture of her
Parisian life. And then the bell would go and we’d be off to find the best
patch of sun-soaked cement to warm our little bones over lunch.
I, on the other hand, wanted to live in a cottage by the sea. Or a van
by the sea. Or a tree house nestled in the forest (rain or hard-wood, I didn’t
mind) that overlooked the sea. I’d have a veggie patch and make all my food
from scratch and dream catchers would hang from all the doors. And there’d be
horses. And when I wanted to dance in the fields to the Gypsy Kings or the My Girl soundtrack, no one would notice and no one would mind.
I never wanted to live in Paris because that was never my dream. When I
saw my girl speak about Paris, I saw the light and love in her eyes. It wasn’t
about the Eiffel Tower or the shop keepers or the hot chocolate brewing French
man. It was about that city. Something in that city lit a fire in her belly and
there was no putting it out. And so it was of no surprise to me that she did
move to Paris. And she loved it. And the stories she told were better than the
ones we daydreamed of so many years ago in Year 7 History (or was it R.E?). I
missed her terribly when she was gone. Sometimes we would Skype or text and I’d
forget she wasn’t 20 minutes down the road and our laughter carried over seas
and countries. Once she showed me how fat she was getting (she wasn’t) by
parading her ripped jeans that had split at the bum when she’d been eating
baguettes from the downstairs bakery. I could not stop laughing. Her butt was
as small as ever but the idea of her ripping the crotch of her jeans made me
realise she would never change, no matter which country she lived in.
And then she came back.
It’s funny how certain dreams never leave you. Even once they are
fulfilled, they still linger and entice you. I had a dream last night that
Vicki lived in Paris and I went to visit her and we sat on her apartment floor
and spoke non-stop about our up coming adventures. She taught me French and I
attempted to teach her a drinking game. We spoke about love and travel and work
and play. I was excited about seeing the South of France. She was excited about
sailing. I wanted to call my babe to tell him I was alive. She went to make a
pot of tea.
And then I woke up.
Apart from the seaside living dream, I also want to live in London. I
want to live in the middle of Africa and then maybe Borneo and then Hawaii
because I hear the marine and wild life are off the charts. But now, quite
suddenly, I want to live in Paris. And sit on apartment floors with my best
friend and discuss our plans for world domination and the best way to bake
bread.
But then maybe it’s not about Paris at all. Because I’m pretty sure we
could do all those things in a little seaside house complete with champagne
bottle vases and a scruffy man teaching me to skate.
It’s not about Paris, although Paris is amazing. It’s about Vicki.
I just want to live in the same city as my lady love. And nothing is
ever going to quell that dream. It’s just too bloomin wonderful.
X
