Getting There

I really don't want to think how long I've been awake at this point. It all feels like a blur, yesterday I was in San Francisco, today I'm sipping a Victoria in my Parisian crashpad desperately trying to force my brain to form sentences. I doubt very much that sleep deprivation is going to improve the quality of my writing, but there is something to be said for striking while the iron is still hot.

For anyone who's never flown Virgin Atlantic before, let me start by saying that for a ten hour trans atlantic flight, it really was not that bad at all. The in flight food was the best I've ever had (lamb curry), the seat was comfortable, and the flight crew was pleasant and attentive. I almost feel bad not taking advantage of the huge selection of inflight entertainment options. I say almost because there is nothing that makes the hours melt like a good book. Not five minutes before leaving for the airport I had downloaded the long awaited fifth installment of George R. R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire" series. Two gin and tonics, and a few hundred pages later we were making our decent into London Heathrow. Ten hours on an airplane was never so easy. I even forgot to try to sleep.

All my previous experiences flying into Heathrow have been hellish slogs through endless lines and packed corridors reeking of B.O. Needless to say I was pleasantly surprised when we breezed through customs and our baggage was already on the carousel when we went to claim it. The train ride from St. Pancras station to Gare du Nord In Paris was similarly pleasant. I hardly even noticed passing under the English channel. One moment we were in England the next we were zipping through the beautiful pastoral French countryside.

And then there is Paris. A gem in all seasons, my favorite city in the world. I can't sum up in words the emotional overload of being in Paris again. This city speaks to my soul, a melancholy seduction that I yearn to understand.