Perhaps it is also with irony and amusement that this was my hotel room.
The color of the walls was green, absinthe green. This was the only picture painted on the wall, burlesque and top hat. The room was small and quaint, the curtains were airy. The sun did not set until midnight.
The Moulin Rouge was down the street from my hotel, there were crowds and bars, and there was me, without cash. I had an American Express credit card. I had no really good plans. I had no idea what I wanted to do, I had no idea where I wanted to be.
For a crushing moment I had to be honest and realize that as amused as I was I didn't want to be in Paris. I wanted to be home. This was the first time in all the travels I have ever taken that I truly didn't want to be in a place when I had chosen to go. I learned a few things from this: do not force travel. Listen to your instincts. If the darkness is rolling in go to the place where arms are waiting to hold you.
All of this is better than being alone in the center of artistic Paris suffering from a crisis of identity and feeling most palpably the loss of the life that was to be lived. It is better to suffer with friends than alone. It is better to suffer at home than four thousand miles away.
Becoming again is painful. Paris was the beginning of a realization I didn't know I was coming to, but it would come.