I dream of Paris.

Last night I watched Midnight In Paris and I have to first say that it did not disappoint. People give Allen a hard time for his portrayal of female characters, for making them subservient to the men, for not casting enough attention to them, but I don’t think that’s the case with this film in particular. Rachel McAdams, Marion Cottilard and Kathy Bates were all brilliant, and strong, well written and developed. The film got me thinking about Paris and its history and it’s draw and I’m very much looking forward to returning there next month with my petite amie.

I’ve loved Paris since my parents took me when I was eleven, and it wasn’t just the draw of Mickey and co, I loved the people of Paris, I liked how they shrugged and how they always seemed to be smoking, and how beautiful the women were.

I returned a couple of times in my teens sans mes parents and realised that without the restraints of family time I was in one of the most beautiful (if not the most (I don’t know, I haven’t visited them all)) cities in the world and had free reign. I loved the Metro and the record stores, coffee shops, architecture, history. It’s a place Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Orwell have all written about and adored and lived and there’s that draw constantly. It’s where Wilde, Morrison and Piaf came to rest, and the beauty and poetry and bohemian nature, and nothing can compete with that. I can’t think of anywhere else I have visited that stays as easily on my heart, Paris is not disposable, you carry it. It is a moveable feast as Hemingway famously said.

Take me now, and don’t return me until I have a typewritten and bound manuscript under my arm. To write a novel in Paris is one of my aims.






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