Parisian Skies

I cried all the way to the entrance of the channel tunnel. It wasn’t until I saw the Eiffel tower fade into the distance that it’s disappearance was aided by the blur of tears; not until the banlieus melted into bleak, snow tinged countryside that it truly dawned on me that I was leaving the city of love. The fleeting six months I had lived in Paris were the best of my life so far. Even during the packing up of my cosy apartment in the Latin quarter, the reminiscences on the balcony which had played host to many a sunrise, the hurried goodbye to my tearful flatmate, I had not realised I was going for good. Until I had survived the stressful boarding of the eurostar, up to the point at which I had settled into my seat, surrounded by tourists and businessmen, a copy of French vogue and Proust, I did not appreciate that this spelt the end. It meant no more nights at Paris social club; no more sunrises from the Sacré Coeur; no more flush Saturdays browsing the shops of the Marais; no more lazy Sundays in the Place des Vosges.

Desolate in my vintage fur coat, a prize possession trawled from the racks of free ‘p’ star which I refused to leave, and my newly shorn Parisian bob, I stood on the platform of St Pancras. My purse was bereft of the pound coin needed for a trolley, and my arms lacked the strength to pull my luggage, my entire life in packed into two suitcases and an it-bag. I made my sorry way, metre by agonising metre, towards the gates of King’s Cross, a mere platform and zebra crossing away, much to the annoyance of my fellow passengers. By the time I reached passport control, my faith in human kindness was as empty as my purse was of sterling after suffering the frustrations of those surrounding me. In my fragile state, I felt the tears well once again when the grip in my weak hands gave way and, turning to retrieve my fallen cases, I was faced by a genuine growl from the traveller behind me.

It does not take such a personal case to lose faith in human kindness. Simple acts of benevolence; the offering of a seat to an elderly bus passenger, or the kindly cliché of helping an old man across the road are becoming a thing of the past. I was astonished to find, in the midst of a rather humbling explanation to a charity worker on the street as to the exact reason I was unable to subscribe to the cause he was championing (he was unable to accept a donation and as the majority of my student loan had been frittered away on Oldham street, home to the city’s vintage shops and an Aladdin’s cave of irresistible fabrics, I could not guarantee that the necessary five pounds a month would remain in my account to be siphoned) that he was in fact paid for his job. When volunteers are as hard to come by as a size five Louboutin in a sale, there is little to restore any conviction.

That said, the simplest act of generosity is amplified to Saintly status. Given the chance, I would offer my champion up to be knighted at the drop of the hat; the kindly soul whom, seeing me burning despite the frosty January morning, took my cases from my shaking hands, steered them across the road and produced the necessary coin to hire me a trolley showed more benevolence in five minutes that I have been witness to since. It was no grand gesture on his part; neither a detour nor a drastic amount of effort, but his magnanimity was a ray of sunshine through the London cloud, and a ray of happiness into my bereft heart.Sat on my sun drenched (and much cheaper) balcony of my piso overlooking the magnificent gothic cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, surrounded by the Galician countryside and good friends, the only bane on my life of today is the fifteen kilo luggage limit imposed by Ryanair, a pain much softened by the prospect of refilling my barren wardrobe with Spanish purchases. The nostalgic ache of Paris is easily replaced by the flurrying excitement of the flat back in Manchester which next year will be shared with my romantic soulmates and Parisian companions, and the certitude that the discounted Spanish prices will allow for many a visit back to the Gallic streets which haunt my reveries.