Truth be told, I dread about the final two – three days of a long vacay.

Can’t stand them. To me they are an unfair reminder of the inevitable : leaving. How hard it is to consider leaving when your entire being is in love and at home with a place.

This is the struggle — part of me doesn’t even want this day, I wish it were already over. Each hour seems too unbearable … Of narrowing down where to go, what street will be my final walk? What sight to make my last?

How can I be forced to choose?

How can I even contemplate leaving; another goodbye?

How can I stop the clock? Savor and file away all of these memories?

My heart has felt heavy, too heavy, all day. While I fully know this is how it goes, I don’t like it. Not one little bit.

I know that to come back means to leave, but coming to terms with this is another matter unto itself.

As I sat tonight on a bench in front of Saint Sulpice, listening to the water rushing down into the fountain … Police sirens, laughter, forks hitting plates … I had the overwhelming certainty strike me …

That this must be the continuation of the story, and the story will continue to be told here. It becomes a game and question of but when’s and how’s … Yet this is the fun of life.

The glorious adventure of the adventure; the great big unknown.

And me at the center, as Creator.

I love you, Paris. À la prochaine …