From Paris with Love
Notes on routine, self-doubt, and what happens when the safety net is gone
Paid subscribers: This voiceover is a scream. Just sayin’ 😎
By the time you read this, I will be living in Paris.
Not permanently. At least, that’s not the plan. But I won’t be merely a passing visitor.
All being well, when this hits your inbox, I will be finishing the big project that necessitated my crossing the English Channel in mid-June to base myself in the French capital.
I say “all being well” because the tasks in question are not easy, and this is 2026, after all. One can never be sure.
Unlike other trips, this one will involve none of your typical touristy itineraries. No queueing up in front of the Eiffel Tower. No aimless strolls along the Seine. Definitely no standing in line at the Louvre to take a picture of the Mona Lisa.
What it will involve is a considerable amount of grit and determination if I am to call it a success.
Let’s just say this is no ordinary trip.
According to my calculations, this will be my ninth time in the City of Light in the space of seventeen years, which is almost half of my life. Which is bonkers, because it’s not so much a reminder of the time lived but of how little there is left.
Melancholic, I hear you say. At the time of writing, I haven’t even landed yet. C’est la vie.
For someone like me — and I suspect, like you — our sense of routine is what keeps us functioning. It’s what helps us preserve whatever bit of sanity we’ve got left. It’s our compass and our guide, our comfort blanket, our lighthouse in the middle of the night.
Permanence, for better or worse, grounds us. Like our rituals. Like our records.
And look, I would happily spend an alarming percentage of my life doing the same things in the same places at the same times. There is comfort in predictability. Efficiency, too.
This trip, unfortunately, has other ideas. As I said, this is no ordinary trip.
And there is no ordinary way to tell you about it.
