Some notes on travelling, trying to fit in, and really getting to know a city.

Visiting Paris is like having a holiday romance; it’s a whirlwind blur of the Louvre, pastries, cafés, walks along the seine and copious amounts of crêpes. Living in Paris was a bit like being married to a charming but slightly abusive husband; you are absolutely in love and totally incapable of leaving, but every so often (after a particularly bad argument) you wonder if it’s really worth the cost to your health, sanity and bank balance.
On this particular day the heat of the city was sticky and exhausting. The metro was full of obnoxious people rushing to work and thrusting their slightly damp armpits alarmingly close to my face. I got lost somewhere in the eleventh arrondissement and began to panic-walk, map in hand. The only way I could have looked more foreign is if I were dressed head-to-toe in ‘I Heart Paris’ merchandise. Over the course of one morning I’d somehow spent 30 euro on nothing (On reflection, I think my purse was actually eating money. I never had any in there at the time, and it always looked guilty…)
By the time I’d finished my work as an au-pair that evening I was exhausted, and all I’d learned that day is that French children prefer screaming to walking, talking, playing, singing, reading, and generally any other activity. I decided to shun the metro in favour of an angry walk where I could stomp out my frustrations with the day directly into the pavement.
I paused briefly on the Pont Louis Philipe, and was struck by the fact that for the first time since arriving in the city, I was happy to be by myself. Not lonely, not squirming in a sea of human traffic, and not battling the metro with three over-excited infants hanging of my arms and legs. Just me, looking at the city. I made my way down to the quay. I took in a deep lungful of air that was a mixture of stagnant water, cigarettes, and the ubiquitous scent of urine.
I picked my way through sporadic huddles of people, sat smoking, drinking, and talking in a swirl of languages. I flopped down at the end of the island, dangling my feet over the edge and wriggling my toes against the light speckled across the water.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and contentment. I’d finally found a little corner of the city that felt like mine.
I never brought family and friends who visited me to this spot. I think wherever you travel, and however long for, it’s important to find a space to breath, a little crevice of the city that’s just for the two of you.