At about this time last year, I was readying myself for a grand transition – out of one start-up and into another with only a measly day in between. Flush with this fleeting freedom, I headed south for a long weekend in Marseille and Aix-en-Provence to properly mark the occasion. Far from the gridlock, relentless Parisian complaining and muddy river waters, I welcomed the disquieting unknown that lay ahead by soaking my toes in the turquoise Mediterranean – a French doctor recommended cure-all.
Now veering headfirst into Paris spring with abnormally mild temperatures, my inter-season restlessness has descended violently. Not even terrace revelers and an early picnic season have succeeded in lifting my funk.
It’s silly, really. Paris has no shortage of new cultural events and restaurants to test, including this public carnival I wrote about for the NYT (which was great fun), but I find myself turning in circles. I’m intrigued by a lot of what’s happening around town but I still feel drained from the last, overly eventful six months and have swapped regular urban excursions for the comforts of neighborhood coffee dates and weekends bumming around in my jammies.
I’ve surrendered to my annual early-spring-blues and barren creativity for which not…
