I have been staring at this little box for over an hour now. I woke up at 4:30 — yay jet lag! — and while my eyes aren’t bleary and heavy with sleeplessness at the moment, I know that will come back, too. Like I did.
Yes, that sign does say “Welcome home, (girl) Connor! … yes, that is HER name!” Apparently I confuse people with that name of mine.
Well. As mother would say, I don’t appreciate being pigeonholed.
Not the city of brotherly love (that one’s called home, and I’m not quite there yet) — and no, I’m not making some vague reference to falling in love or a whirlwind romance during my time in Dublin, as neither of those occurred (saving my falling in love with the city itself and my whirlwind romance with the pastries of Avoca and KC Peaches).
No, I mean it quite literally, presenting it as a title: Paris.
… though, to be quite honest, I’d have to say that the City of Light seems more appropriate. I didn’t quite get the “City of Love” vibe (but perhaps this is because I speak no French other than mais oui, merci beaucoup, pardon, and bonjour).
City of Light, though — that’s a name I could get behind.
…even if it is supposed to be due to the Age of Enlightenment and not electricity.
I went to Italy this past weekend. Somehow, one of the biggest American holidays rolled around without me paying any attention to it: I turned around suddenly and the Black Friday e-mails had swamped my inbox, my mother was sending me pictures of one of my Thanksgiving favorites (squash rolls, for those of a curious nature), Hanna accompanied me to Thanksgiving dinner with some friends in Maynooth, and next thing I knew I was stepping off a plane in Italy.