I am reading Paris Was Ours, a compilation of 32 stories of foreigners in Paris by 32 writers, edited by Penelope Rowlands. It is that kind of easy reading that makes you feel like you are just breathing the words in, the good kind of simple prose that is very appealing to the voyeuristic because they are also honest. The book has rough uncut pages – I am a sucker for pretentious details like this – and they may or may not be one of the reasons why I bough it in the first place.
What do I think of Paris? The first time I went there, it was much too cold and everything looks much too beautiful (and I do mean EVERYTHING). But I was 21 and impressionable.
Then I went a second time and it was exactly the same.
Yet to be there a third time, but I’ll keep you posted when that happens.