Chercheur

I’ll never forget the day that I realised I wanted to be a travel writer.

The doors opened and with a head full of thoughts I shuffled out of the elevator. It had been a hard day. I knew I would rue this trip as one of my worst. The only reason I was there and not on a train back was because I wanted to salvage what was left of the trip. It was a day of bad firsts. I decided to get it over with, so I could end the day. With a deep breath I looked out over the railing...

I got off the train at Gare du Nord. I had my entire day mapped. I was excited about my day in Paris. I was going to walk along the banks of the Seine River. With rented cycles, boat rides, street artists and Café Les Deux Magots in my head I moved towards the metro.
But before I could realise it a girl posing as a charity worker had robbed me. The police station, which was a steel door in a red brick wall, was my next stop. Before I finished my report they had the girl in cuffs. A second police station was my next stop to confirm my report. With rain and hunger as companions I made my way. On arrival I was faced by a blank expression. A phone call later I was informed that I had to go to a third police station where the girl was taken. After 25-minutes I was lost. I decided to turn back to salvage my day in Paris.

...I couldn’t formulate a thought. A switch flipped and my head exploded. There is something about me, so that you can put my reaction in context. My first love is stories. For stories I have had one meal a day for a month because books had eaten all my money. For stories I have forgone food, water and rest for twelve hours straight. As long as there are stories, there is nothing else for me.
Gazing from the Eiffel Tower, dam doors burst and I felt I could see a hundred different lives being lived. I saw stories, hundreds of them. Before me lay the city of Paris and it was beautiful. The diverse architecture struck me. I could see time flow because of modern architecture existing alongside classical. It didn’t matter that I was drenched, it didn’t matter that I was robbed, it didn’t matter that I was hungry. Actually everything did matter, all that was bad about the day was turned to good. I realised that I had lived a story that was worth retelling; I wanted to live a different story everyday. I wanted to travel the world and write about it. I don’t know how long I was there but it was some time before I realised that I had a stupid grin on my face.