When I was 15, I went to Paris with my French class from my British school in Mexico.

I discovered french pastries and baguette. At the end of the summer, I could not do up the zipper on my jeans any better than the zipper on my suitcase.

When I was 25, I went to Paris to discover the world and what I could do. I had three jobs, I was dead broke and I lived on the 8th floor of a walk up in a tiny, fairly unsavoury chambre de bonne with a shared bathroom. I count it as one of the 4 happiest times of my life.

A boyfriend from home chased me all the way there. Fortunately, it was short-lived.*

When I was in my early 40’s, I went to Paris with my former husband and my two children. My marriage was in trouble. The trip was good as I was sharing my favourite place with my beloved children but the strain was heavy.

Tonight, the man I like more than pastries is taking me to Paris and London.

This weekend is a poetic one for me. It is a motherhood weekend as all children get ready to go back to school. It is also a separation one, as 8 years ago (or a lifetime) this weekend we split up.

Last year on this important weekend, I did a special trip by myself. It was magnificent and I even conquered a fear while there.

This year, I am doing something different.

I am going to Paris again.

With a boy.

* (click on this to read what I think is the funniest story I have)