Well, I’m not twenty-three anymore. (I realise, looking through the archives, that I haven’t really acknowledged the transition from my twenties to my thirties, but it definitely happened a few years ago. I turned thirty-one last September.) That should surprise no one, of course, least of all me, but I’m feeling it acutely right now. When I was twenty-three, I spent a little over two months living in Paris and travelling Europe with Ian. It was the longest I had ever been away from home up to that point and, while it ended too quickly, as holidays inevitably do, it still felt like we were away for a long time. What a difference (a little less than) a decade makes. At thirty-one, I experience the passage of time a lot differently. Today is May twelfth, the third last Friday we will spend in Paris. We have two full weeks left in Europe and, by this time in the first week of June, we will be starting to get our life organised back in Canada. We have done so many amazing things since we arrived, and there is still time – time enough for most of a week in Prague, and a day trip to London, just for a start. But part of me feels a bit like I blinked and missed all the long, luxurious days we were supposed to have because I can’t believe how much time has gone by already. That is, of course, just all the more reason to say yes to every pastry, yes to every museum exhibit and yes to every pair of shoes that I’m not sure I will actually be able to fit into my suitcase. But I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I am already sorry to see this beautiful adventure coming to its inevitable end.
Je vous reviens en français des lundi, mes belles. Bon week-end.