So here I am again, leaving home at an ungodly hour, somehow tired already (and the journey hasn’t even started properly!). Not having set foot in the booth for almost four weeks, I admit to myself that I am feeling anxious, dreading the challenge ahead in the City of La Tarte Flambée.
As I’m trying hard to relax and catch up on sleep, I remember this travel-beaten guy I once saw on the Eurostar, with just the gear for an early morning trip like this. Aargh, I need one of those… head-scarf-chimney things!!!
I bet he was inspired by THE ultimate napping accessory!
Mind you, it’s not all bad; for one thing, I don’t have to fly. And, at this hour, I am unlikely to bump into one of those impossible speakers with razor-sharp wit, who make you feel so inadequate as you try to render all their little quips and gibes into your mother tongue. Inevitably, you often feel you could have done much better.
The city greets me with rain and post-winter-break blues. Grey, grim and grotty, it seems unusually unwelcoming. But it’s OK. What it lacks in weather, it will hopefully make up for in food. So this tarte flambée had better be good.