It’s 11h15 on a Sunday morning in Paris. I could be outside getting a coffee and going for a stroll in the Jardins du Luxembourg (which I did yesterday at 8h, hence the gloominess of the below photo).
But instead I’m lingering in the little hotel room up in the rafters, while the other three girls pack. We met here in Paris in 2004, bonding over the horror of Science Po exposés and a love of good food and cheap wine, and never looked back. The photos from that time are blurry, taken with a faulty digital camera or with old school cameras that took ages to get developed, faces pink and shiny, in random locations ranging from house parties, gay clubs on the Champs-Elysee, party boats and gatherings on the banks or bridges of the Seine. It was a wonderful time.
Let’s not speak of the lip piercing.
Our friendship has stood the test of time and travel. No matter what, we have managed to return to Paris every year for a weekend. It’s a lovely tradition, made all the more special when one of us is getting married and the wedding shoes are bought here. On occasion, one person has been missing, due to round-the-world travel, but it was a happy moment when I told them I wouldn’t be moving to Canada. The tradition can live on in 2017.