Better Than A Summer

Paris in June. The warmth of the day, the fresh early mornings, the fragrant jasmine in the courtyard. Men taking a peek as you walk down the street. Having dinner with a friend who feels like family. Cafés bustling everywhere. A cool glass of rosé.

Days so long they stretch your entire existence.

What it would feel like if we felt like we had finally arrived.

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Early morning, walking back from getting my coffee at Noir where the team is young, cool and easy and where Saint Germain-des-Prés feels like Brooklyn, I was looking back at my long, two-year winter—last summer had been reluctantly spent in the Southern Hemisphere—and thinking of all the things that I had left behind.

The last two years, what a whirlwind. Well, the last ten years really.

Actually… when I think about it, my thirties were a whirlwind too.

Just a whirlwind of a different kind—a whirlwind of work and achievement.

My forties where a whirlwind of What The Fuck.