Today, I leave Paris. It’s not quite time to go home yet, since I’ll be jumping across the Channel to spend a few days in London, but the time in the City of Light has drawn to a close. With the possible exception of a visit last November, this is the first time I’ve been sad to leave Paris.
It’s not that I didn’t have good times to savor in the previous eighteen times I left the city – it’s just that it was, well, time to go home. Like I mentioned in Day Two, Paris is a hot-and-cold relationship for me. For everyone, I think, given enough time.
But this time, I wasn’t sure that it was time to go. I miss home, and God knows I can’t keep this up forever financially – it’s a whole different mindset when your bank account only moves in one direction – but I was still savoring every hour of every day, up until the end. It really didn’t even register until I was waiting on the Eurostar platform at Gare du Nord that I was actually leaving; subconsciously I was just seeing going to the train station as something I had to do that day, I hadn’t given much thought to what it meant.