Chapter 4 - How to make it through the rain

Much like the weather of London, it is often overcast, gray, and drizzling in Paris. It brings with it the kind of cold that seeps underneath your warmest thermal that you're wearing under your warmest wool. Brr.

But there is a sun out there, and sometimes when it hits the clouds from overhead at just that right angle, the clouds traverse the specrum and move from a cool shade of blue to a warm shade of red, and the whole sky acts like a red silk thrown over a lampshade and the city is then lit with a faint shade of rose colored glasses.

When the sky turns pink, everything seems to just feel better.

This return to Paris is a strange one. It's not as I expected it to be, and herein lies my downfall. I had expectations. I never should have returned with expectations.

Paris is a city of randomness, and within its folds lays the synchronicity of it all. To try to impose any sort of strict guideline to life here would be to dig your own grave. Paris is not what you expect of it; it is about what it expects of you.

So I must make my way through the rain and life, and all I have is my umbrella, two suitcases, and, well, and myself.

I suppose things could be worse.