Chocolate Cigarettes

When I was 15, my mother sent me to Paris on account of I was 'too naughty to stay in Sydney.'
And so I went : me, my curly red hair, pimples, private girls school eating disorder and 35 kg suitcase got on a big bloody plane to one of the most magical cities in the world. I was expecting my life to change forever from this moment.
It did.
Obviously.

I arrived at Lycée Saint Sulpice in the middle of this beautiful city after one of the longest flights I think you could ever take, ever, to get to Europe from Australia. Those damn cheap flights had 3 stop overs lasting more than 5 hours each. 3. Stop. Overs. Yah, you heard me.

Needless to say, I was pretty knackered by the time I arrived, the young gorgeous lad who's house I was staying at met me at the bus, carried my bags and made sign language- esque gestures for me to follow him up the eight flights of stairs to each the tiny two bedroom apartment that I would be living in for the next 5 months. The two bedrooms wouldn't have been such a problem, if only there were less than 6 people living in they house.
And a golden retriever.
In terms of spacious, it wasn't. In terms of Paris, at 15, with curly hair and a private girls school eating disorder, it was.
And from here my 'treasured life' changed.

The first day of school was a dream, people called me Paris Hilton (which, at the time, I thought was a MASSIVE compliment), I started dating a Danish DJ who was 5 years older than me and completely addicted to weed. It was bliss. We kissed. ALOT. Girls followed me around and wanted to smoke chocolate flavoured cigarettes between classes, we ate very little, drank almost anything, spent every cent of money to my name. I was 15, with curly red hair, a nicotine addiction and desperately in love.
More than anything else, I was I love with myself, for the first time. Ever. THAT was a treasure bigger than my stupid head could handle.
It wasn't the smoking or the Danish DJ or the Paris or the 6 people in two bedrooms. It was the travelling. The adventure. The possibility that other people exist on this world in a real way and I could connect, I could treasure myself and everything that I was worthy and capable of experiencing, feeling and needing. I'll keep that travel treasure bug. I'm proud to say: I've still got it.
Though the the Danish DJ had a pretty short life span. And chocolate cigs taste like shit.
Paris never made me 'less naughty' : look at me, I'm still swearing on public forums for fucks sake.