Why I spend my weekends in Paris

There was a time when I was a little bit younger (just a few years back) when I said to myself, “one day, gagawin kong Cubao ang Paris”. Of course, ceci est une caricature. I was exaggerating, obviously. By economic standards, Cubao is not at all comparable to Paris. Maybe to the chaos of it, yes.

What I really meant was that one day, Paris would be as ordinary to me as Cubao is. It would be so close that I would spend weekends there to hang out or pass through it on the road to somewhere else.

Well, wish granted.

Up until this day, even if it indeed became some sort of  a normal routine, I still can’t believe I’m spending half of my time in Paris and half of it a hundred kilometers away in the city of Rouen, where I’m a resident.

What have I been doing? Visiting friends if not getting in another train, bus or plane to another destination. I signed up for conferences (I never get to attend to because I would end up chatting up with friends who would host me). I visit iconic, or should I say touristic, spots. But mostly, really, for food and friends.

Paris, no matter how chaotic and risky it may be to be there, not to mention costly, too – at some point, these past few days it has become my refuge. I love Rouen but I need to get away from it. Honestly speaking, it’s really mostly getting away from responsibilities. Not because I can’t handle them but because I just don’t want to anymore. There’s a difference between being capable of doing something and wanting to do something.

Not that I’m ungrateful of this experience. I will forever be grateful and will never regret having done this. It’s just that at this point, I’m just not sure anymore. I’m not even sure of anything anymore. I came from knowing what I want, how and where to get it to being completely lost. Going to Paris frequently gives me an idea of certainty, of regularity, of purpose, of destination – at least for the time being.

(How timely was it that this song played randomly while I was typing this up.)