Monday, September 29


There was a strange smell of fresh apples inside the house, a smell which reminded me of visits to my grandmother, the long evenings when we would talk about her childhood, what life was like before the war. Inside that house I had felt safe and protected, reassured that everything would always stay the same. Perhaps it was dealing with change that was most difficult for me. Paris felt empty, even when I woke up the next day, and I remembered it was different once. Moto taxi guy had already brought me croissants and coffee, part of his ‘education sentimentale’, which made me somewhat proud of him. When I looked out of the window, dressed in a bright blue kimono, I imagined myself jogging through the Jardin des Plantes, running through fields of empty space, not feeling a care in the world. Later that day, on a terrace, I saw children with bags underneath their eyes, drug addicts and alcoholics, handsome businessmen with smartphones, teenagers carrying McDonalds in big paper bags, tourists looking for somewhere which looked nicer, a mother and daughter walking hand in hand. And suddenly I understood what happiness really was: it meant wanting to be where you are, at that moment, not wanting to change anything.