to tc: postcard on leaving
Paris, at least the one I fell in love with, is no more, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
to adam : human hollows
Avec les grandes villes comme Paris ou New York (les villes où j’ai mis mon cœur, comme une maudite idiote), ils sont toujours comme ça.
to danielle : edinburgh
Late mornings of honey and butter drenched sourdough toasts, golden as the warm sun streaming through the kitchen windows.
to john : in other words
I’m not ready to leave now—et pour être honnête, je ne pense pas que je serai jamais—but I feel like this chapter is drawing to an end. To be revisited later, perhaps, but no longer unfinished.
to friends : early january postcards
It's good to be back. Reunited with old friends, familiar streets, this language I let slip away from me in the past year. Almost sad I have to leave again so soon but excited for the new adventures that await.
to matt : la péniche
I don't know if I ever got to tell you that I live on a boat on the Seine?
to tc : autumn reflections
I know that Paris sera toujours Paris. I said this often to reassure myself when I was away, but to come face to face with that reality was jarring in some ways.
to quentin : d’être étranger
Je me mis souvent aux situations où je suis dépaysée, déracinée, complètement bouleversée. Déraciner. C’est un mot qui n’existe pas en anglais dans le même sens et je le trouve tellement triste, mais précis.
to quentin : how it begins
A love letter excerpt.
to tc : nîmes
We've been spending long afternoons in her small apartment just sitting at her table, sipping coffee and talking about what it means to be back here as the warm southern breeze blowing through her open window….We’ve been talking a lot about how difficult it is to be in French.
to tc : meditations on home / the return
And the train pulled in and I was off, automatically going through the motions of transferring to the metro and navigating metro maps in my brain that I didn't realize were still there.
home, home, home, home, my heart murmured gently in time with the deep rattleclackroar of the metro. you're home again.
to john : august impressions
A love letter of sorts, in brief impressions and colors