Each time a new email arrives in my inbox from Greta, I am flushed with a sense of excitement that I can only relate to reading the next instalment of your favourite book. Her words combined with her minimalist style of film photography really create a sense of escapism in the direction of whatever far off place she may be, even if I'm sitting in an office in the middle of London with sirens blaring around me. This week, Greta makes me fall hard for Paris, without even leaving my seat.

48.8567° N, 2.3508° E

Canon AV-150mm1.2 & 28mm 2.8
FujicolorSuperia 200 & Kodak ColorPlus 200

I find my relationship with Paris very difficult to summarise… Love/Hate is too cliché for my liking, but I can’t seem to put it any other way. If you stay too long, you need to get out. And as soon as you’re gone, you want to go back… I guess it’s kind of like an ex.

So, having moved to Paris last year, I welcomed the opportunity to return, even just for a few days.

I won’t lie - when I first landed in the City of Lights, wide-eyed and full of ambition, I struggled as much as anyone to crack its cold, hard yet very well dressed Parisien shell. I find it a little ironic that Paris is called The City of Lights, because it’s really the places cast in shadows, silhouetted by the blinding tourist hot-spots that stole my heart.

It’s the kitchenette-come-wine bar tucked behind the Moulin Rouge with enough regulars to avoid hiring staff; the bookshops so small and yet so full, you wonder if someone could be buried between the stock and the floor; the loud and busy, smelly yet incredibly friendly market beneath the metro line; the small bar on the unlit street where the bartender makes your drink before you even sit down; the slow mornings and illogically narrow footpaths filled with beautifully dressed people; the entire process that is a ‘meal’, lasting anywhere from one hour to six; the history of the streets and the literature that traces it; the pétanque tournaments by the canal (so competitive one time I actually mistook the crowd of shouting old men for a political rally); the 12-piece orchestra that brings a little bit of joy to Châtelet – Les Halles, the metro station more commonly known as ‘where dreams go to die’; the one hill in Buttes Chaumont that catches the sun until it sets, and the rooftops so cramped with terracotta pots they look like pieces of lego.

These are the places I spent my last few days.

My camera’s wind on must have had some issues because the last two pictures I took in Paris unexpectedly yet somewhat perfectly merged into one. One of my friend Ash as she stuck her head over the stairwell, I’d paused for a moment before collecting my bags for the last time and my final RER trip to Charles De Gaulle Airport.

Dear Paris, I will miss all the things about you that made it so difficult to find my feet, but more importantly I will miss all the things that made me feel at home. Thank you for the opportunities, for the damage to my liver and for making me too critical of bread, wine and cheese for social acceptance anywhere else in the world.

Salut et à bientôt mon ami.

Next stop – Nepal!

Catch up on Greta's last adventurous entries to Barcelona and the Pyrenees and check out her site here.