It's rare to see emotions here beyond trumped up bravado under a veneer of trashtalk, but those would cheapen how turbulent the closing of this chapter really was. A swirling mix of sadness, uncertainty and excitement spiked without rhyme or reason, any holding sway at a given moment. They were the consequence of dramatic changes and a life in upheaval. Many of my friends had left Paris already, many would remain after my parting. A girl and friends and the memories of another year, the best year so far. A year of projects, of squatting, of adventures, of drinking wine by the Seinne, of taking whatever chunk of Paris we could find and forcefully inserting ourselves where undesired. The monuments, the churches, the powertunnels, the ktas, the quarries, the RER, the Metro and one last project yet to be unleashed which iced the cake of a ~year surpassing all expectations. The cake was devoured, last bit of icing licked from the plate. The party was over.

This end though encompassed more than that, for into it was drawn the end of the semi-nomadic lifestyle to which I'd become accustomed. The departure from Paris signaled that life's final brave stand. After more than three years away stalking across the globe, I was returning to a home only such by virtue of growing up there, when in truth I had little home at all. Those most immediately important were either left behind, hopefully awaiting my return or stuffed into my backpack. For three years I'd been telling myself going back was giving up and while not necessarily true, the notion had been internalised regardless. The self given charge to see the world had in many ways been achieved but so much remained unseen, unfelt, unlived. I was going back, giving up, returning to Australia.

In Charles de Gaulle International snappel and I exchanged the dregs of our euro currency for cheap beer in sealed duty-free plastic bags, which upon reaching seclusion somewhere in the terminal we tore open and furiously consumed. The effects kicked in sometime after boarding, by which time Tamazapan of dubious dosage had been swallowed and we slumped into our seats, heads lolling to the sides and promptly died. I don't much recall our transfer in Montreal except that while the alcohol and sleeping pills may have numbed the senses and slowed the brain, the emotional throttle was stuck on Full. This was fueled by a recurring contrast which played oscillatory havoc - for snappel it was a gleeful escape to vast foreign horizons, a trail away from home into the great unknown; for myself a despised path to a place I had no desire to be, further and further from the closest thing I had to home. His spirits buoyed mine for a while but in the pit of my stomach the strongest thought never fully muted, whispered constantly: going back is giving up.



Jetlagged and suffering the sleeping tablets' long tail we bumped through the crowds on autopilot to our pad for the coming week. Respite was short for a phone call roused us to action and with weary feet we met Moe, Shane and Eric in a basement bar nearby. Tall tales and whispered secrets shared, their inspiring spirits lifted mine and clear as day it was that giving up would not be without a fight. Not here, not anywhere. Welcome friends, to New York fucking City.