A year ago, I booked a trip to France that I planned for months. In the twelfth hour, as I drove up interstate 95 to the airport, a snowstorm in Ireland canceled the entire journey. In the days following, I felt sad and almost wounded to have this trip yanked away from me, especially at the last possible moment. The cancellation underlined the fleetingness of opportunity. I rebounded by booking trips to Canada, Cuba, and Scotland, countries that had never been on my radar before the day I didn’t make it to Paris.
What bothered me most was, still, the intention. I had trains and tours booked and memories and pictures planned. I envisioned myself on the hill overlooking Nice’s beach and eating a croissant by the Arc de Triomphe. Even with new trips, I remain haunted by reminders that anything can vanish even when it’s most guaranteed.
The weekend after my canceled trip, I saw flyers for Richmond’s French Film Festival. A month later, I attended a “Spring in Paris”-themed gala. I took a photo beneath an Eiffel Tower that I’d never see, at least not so soon.Read More