April in Paris. Not a month, but a week. Still. Europe at its most fragile time of the year. Blossoming chestnut trees and lilacs. I sit at cafes and watch people walk past. And I feel at home. They may not think so (if they see me), but I do. It feels like a very long time since this world was mine. Yet it is so satisfying being here, even if just as an onlooker. An inside onlooker.
I tried to describe to a friend what the difference is between my two worlds. It’s hard to put into words. I think it has to do with the sense of belonging. Whatever effort I make to become one with my new home country it feels as if I fail. It’s superficial, however hard I try. I know more than the average tourist, but the country is not mine. I don’t own it, it doesn’t own me. We are respectful acquaintances , at best. I remain an outsider looking in.
My hotel room here has no TV, so I will have to get used to my own conscious company. Not easy, but I think I will manage. I sleep well. It’s been a very long time.
my solitary dinner, I am brave at lunch time, but dinner…