I left for Paris one year ago. I was greeted with snow, cold feet, and a cup of tea. I slept for fourteen hours, spent hours bumbling about Monoprix, and in a bout of mal du pays, plowed my way through every television show Sally Field appeared in. I slipped on ice, fell once or twice, lost many pairs of socks, and managed to get a large blob of red wine out of cream carpet. I idealized Paris plenty and found my idealizations were, more or less, quite true. My days there were not terribly carefree; Lord knows they were hardly perfect. They were often rotten, miserable, and worn out like my tired shoes. And yet, I reflect fondly, miss that city like a bat torn out of hell.
I don't care much for New Years or other things which call attention to time. I'm troubled enough as it is by such thoughts. However, not all the almond champagne in the world can loosen my dear memories. I suppose this is my poor attempt at well-wishing! Here's to hoping!