Obviously, reading the past two posts you’ll realise that I had planned a few more blog posts about Paris and Connie, Joni and I’s time there. They were meant to be silly and funny and they had been sketched out in draft form. In light of what happened in Paris just four days after we left, and the lives lost, the posts seemed a little needy. Not inappropriate, of course, but there were aspects of them that when writing them up to my usual “standard” they felt a little “poor-me”.
It didn’t take much for Connie and I to think on Friday night as the news rolled in “that could have been us”. We had been there the week before, and that was a scary thought.
Of course, many were there. Many people didn’t get to live the horror out in the safety of their own home but instead were caught up in it. That’s why my complaining about light racism from waiting staff, the amount of walking we did, or the endless selfie sticks seemed a little precious.
I love Paris. I loved our weekend there. I feel for the city and the people who live there. They’re just like me, my wife, and my daughter.