One week left.

How many pain au raisins do you think I can eat between now and then? How many sips of champagne can I squeeze in? Will I be able to find some closure watching my last episodes of Doctors?

I don’t know the answers to these important questions. But I do know that I’ve spent the last week swinging back and forth from being totally fed up with the rain and the lack of take-out food options and the bus strikes to being all googly eyed and nostalgic about the littlest things, like the way the light bathes my apartment’s herringbone parquet floors in the most beautiful honeyed glow, or how the FranPrix cashiers have finally started talking to me, or how the poulet roti from the butcher is simply unparalleled in chickeny excellence.

It’s so hard, this last week. Because I’m so so so ready to go home, to introduce le bébé to my family, to eat egg and cheese bagels again. But at the same time this city keeps trying to woo me with its fresh baguettes and friendly little old ladies and Christmas lights.

I mean, how can I leave when the darkest, dreariest nights are warmed by spectacular lights on every other street? Paris is so sneaky like that. Just when you think you can’t take any more of the hustle and bustle and inefficient public services and the ten different grocery stores you have to visit just to get basic necessities, you turn the corner and WHAM! Something like this hits you right in the face:

A spectacular view, a breeze carrying the smell of fresh croissants, a neighbor who’s finally warmed up to you after two years and offers to babysit. All these things make it so hard to say goodbye. I’m going to need to step in a few piles of dog poo next week to make things easier.

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