Recently I spent a very busy week in Paris. Well, it started with a quick stop in London, then I was off to the City of Lights for the remainder of the week.

I didn’t write any poems while in London, but it was a whirlwind visit of less than 48 hours and I spent much of that time hanging out with my dear friend Tracy, in meetings, sleeping, or on trains. These events didn’t leave much time for writing. But once in Paris, that changed.

Every day was still jam-packed with meetings, but I found myself scratching out poems during some of the meetings – maybe it was in the air, maybe it was all the champagne I consumed that week, maybe it was me reminiscing on the first time I was in Paris, maybe it was me reminiscing on another lost love. Or maybe it’s just that Paris is a city that inspires poetry.

After slightly terrifying my colleagues by reading some of my recent poems, every time I started writing in my notebook one of them would ask, “Are you writing a poem?” and more often than not, I would nod my head yes. There was something about being in that city that kept the words coming.

My last trip to Paris was twelve years ago. It was the last trip my husband and I would take, before our marriage fell apart. That trip was a lesson in hanging onto a failing relationship, trying to enjoy a city I’d dreamed of for years, while knowing that my marriage was breaking. My poem, Paris Imploding, talks about that week I spent in the city.

This trip was different for several reasons: I was there for work so my days were filled with meetings, and I wasn’t worried about my marriage, I could enjoy the city without fear clutching at my heart. I was free to reminisce about former lovers and write them into poems, but I did so with a light heart, not one weighed down by a crumbling relationship.

And so I wandered the city, taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower every damn time I saw it, and writing poems.