In 1918 Ernest Hemingway passed through Paris en route to the Italian front, where he served as an ambulance driver in the American Red Cross Field Service. He returned late in 1921, a recently married man of twenty-two, and with his wife, Hadley, settled into the city that was to become his home until 1928. Although his stay was soon interrupted by travels throughout Europe and the Near East- partly as foreign correspondent for the Toronto Star - and by a brief return to America, where his first son was born, Hemingway spent most of this period in Paris, "the town," as he once put it, "best organized for a writer to write in that there is."
It's just like Hem said, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."
I miss it terribly and often, and was incredibly lucky to have lived there as an impressionable youth. A more eloquent post is due to both Paris and Hem, but for now this shall suffice.
And my flat there on the right. 22 Rue St. Severin in the fifth. I can go back to Paris... But I can't go back to being young in Paris. That thought causes me much pain... But such is life.
