Paris.

13 hours of horrible sleep later.
on an overly air-conditioned flight from Kuala Lumpur.

I find myself waiting in line.
blue passport passed around. stamped.
no more than a "merci" passes my lips.
followed by a walk through frosted-glass doors.
towards baggage claim.
I grab my rucksack and small duffel bag.
hesitate towards a 60-year old woman with a placard --
my name hastily scrawn across a piece of paper
Thérèse Vu.
introductions ending with another "merci"
small talk, car, and then the highway --
as my gaze turns to the Eiffel tower in the distance.

am I really in Paris right now?

my host mother interrupts my reverie
"... and I smoke."
she says this almost timidly.

I reply (a bit sheepishly) back --
"ah...well, me too."

(which is half the truth.
i used to.
okay fine --
it wasn't that long ago.
Beijing was bad for my health... but
don't we all relapse at points?)

she breathes out in relief,
"well that makes things easier..."
a pause.
"welcome to paris" she says,
as she hands me a cigarette.

i can't think of a more parisian welcome.
yes, this is paris.

.....so... about how I quit smoking...
i'm doomed.
that's a factual statement.

do all parisians smoke?
or did i just get (un)lucky?

oh, paris. how i've missed you.