Me and my wife were joined by our best friends on our honeymoon to Paris, so already the trip was a bit unconventional, but what made it more so was my reluctance to leave our cosy Airbnb.
Not exactly a traveller
I’ve never been great at travel and I’m one of the few people I know with little or no desire to see the world. I find myself content with observing the world through photos and documentaries and films and other people’s stories, and I don’t feel like it’s any more meaningful seeing great historic landmarks in person rather than through the eyes of those who actually long to travel. I also don’t have the drive to compose my Insta grid with cookie-cutter sight-seeing photos; the person may change from image to image, but the landmark never does.
But what I do love about travel is drinking in the culture, the atmosphere, the people… and the French have valiantly humoured me as I attempt to use my Leaving Cert level language skills in conversation with them, I must say.
The small details
I love the slight differences, the things people never travel for exclusively.
I love that our rented apartment has barn-doors and window shutters; I love that when I walk down the street all the cafés have seating facing outwards to enjoy the views; I love that difference you feel when you take that first step out from under the blazing sun and into the cool whir of the underground Metro; I love that all the tickets are half the size of a Luas ticket; I love that there are more electric scooters and mopeds in Paris than there are people; I love the bamboo privacy screen adorned with false flowers just outside our window; I love that all the products in the supermarché are the same but just slightly different to what I’m used to.
And the fromage… how I love les fromagesé
A writer's perfection
Today, while my now-wife, brother-in-law and our celebrant are traipsing around the Louvre, levelling up on cultural experience points, I’m lounging on our oversized couch, still in pyjamas and doing what I love most: typing away my thoughts in words.
I’m writing, but I’m writing in Paris. What could be more special than that?
Perhaps if I got all dressed up and went to sit in a café while munching thoughtfully on a whole baguette as I type, but I hereby declare this a pretty perfect alternative.