It would seem odd to continue my account without mentioning the events of Friday. Staying in the middle of Paris during such a horrific time was like something I have never felt or experienced before. As I sit on the Eurostar back home to London, I can’t help but feel an overriding sense of sadness as I leave this beautiful city. I feel sad while at the same time feeling thankful to be on my way unscathed after the night’s events. I feel sad because what happened was not my experience of Paris; it doesn’t reflect the last few days I have spent there. I feel sad for my friend and all of her friends who are deeply distressed to see their home resorted to a sort of fraught madness. I feel sad most of all for the people who were out on Friday to have a good night, only to have it cut short by total inhumanity.
Every day I met with kind, generous, helpful people at the markets, who not only tolerated my terrible French, but who helped me navigate their culinary territory. From the lady who gave me a nudge and a wink towards the correct queue in which to pay, to the Breton salt seller, who proclaimed “WELCOME TO PARIS“, arms in the air, when I bought some delicious grey cooking salt.
It is because of these wonderful people and experiences that I want to continue to tell my account. It wouldn’t be fair to allow this most terrible of events to mar what is one of the most magical cities I know, and in which I have spent the most wonderful of times. The bustling markets of Paris seem to encapsulate what the city and its people are all about, and it is within that spirit that I will continue my account.