Sunday, March 05, 2017

Hemingway In Paris

My trip to London for business was short, and internally I was experiencing great ennui with my job. Would I stay, would I go, it had been two years after all?

This in mind I decided I would take two days and travel somewhere within reach of London. I wanted to go to Greece. Greece is never far from my mind, sometimes and it is a place I have never been to which still manages to haunt my dreams. I have fantasies of wearing sundresses on the beach while watching the sun set. Some Greek lover waiting on a patio making dinner, with strong hands who will message my shoulders and hold me tight.

These are the childish fantasies I cannot put away. The trip from London to Greece was neither easy or cheap so in the end I opted to do something else and go to Paris. In Paris, I knew not what to do, so I turned to books for inspiration and perhaps guidance. For some reason a small book called Hemingway in Paris showed up for free in my library, so after reading about his time in Montmartre, and then reading Moveable Feast, I decided that I would take my two days of vacation time and go to Montmartre.

My irrational fantasy had me staying in some hotel with a hardwood floor, with a balcony and hanging curtains, a small twin bed, french bread, wine, absinthe, la vie boheme...cheese. I didn't have a very good plan, which for me is unusual. It should have been obvious to me then that I was starting to feed into an ever growing depression but I couldn't admit it to myself then. I thought, life, living, Paris.

A hotel in the area I found online for a reasonable rate. It had a rooftop. I thought this might make me feel of the artistic, all of the artistry. Because my life loves irony, it was a popular Korean guest hotel. I should have known.

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