Rolling Through a Dark France

Around five, a bruised, broken twilight gives up. Rolling through a dark France, its landscape hides from me. After an hour, taillight ghosts begin to cluster. Crossing anonymous sodium suburbs and neon valleys, hints of Paris are dropped.

Beyond the strobing rush of le périph, La Ville-Lumiere of memory becomes the city of now. For once, arrival is the easy part of the journey. An apartment, milk and wine are bought in the right sequence within minutes of each other.

It is odd to be back walking the street of the 12th arrondissement. Paris feels like an old girlfriend who has cheated age and looks like your recollection of another time. She has moved on, what you share is at best fond history, but she still has a special smile for you.